- Adam - for the spur-of-the-moment inspiration to buy airfare to Australia (also need to thank American Express Travel for that one... wow, what an awesome service).
- Adam G. - for putting me on the lists to watch movies at the AMPAS theaters... even though I never show up.
- Andy and Nicole - for letting me crash in Dallas... and the copious rounds of ammunition.
- Carrie - for the So You Think You Can Dance gig.
- Dan and Kaity - for the furniture... even though I had to drive Laurel Canyon overloaded... twice.
- Dan and Zoe - for the extended-stay.
- Dasan - for the emergency assistance... even though it didn't work. Can we say Worst. Bank. Ever?
- Erik and Kurt - for letting me crash in Vegas... twice.
- Gerard - for reminding me to check the AAD on the parachute. That could've been an oopsie.
- Helen - for the cookbook, a gorgeous daughter, and just being awesome.
- Helen, Katelyn, Pete, Terry - for having patience.
- Ivan - for the HBO gig.
- J and Brea - for hanging on to my shit longer than you had to.
- Jessica - for the boxes of Goody's and BC's. I'm pretty sure you broke some laws shipping that much medication.
- Jonathan (among others) - for the Amazing Race gig... and the line on the guest house.
- Johnny O. - for introducing me to Hugo's Tacos.
- Jordan - for the emergency assistance... remind me not to pay bills from a mobile phone while on a bumpy road.
- Jose - for the Albuquerque offer.
- Kay and Sagremor - for clearing out the rats... but those fucking squirrels are getting out of hand.
- Krys - for agreeing to take 10thDoM off of my hands.
- The Parents
- Pete - for finally pulling your weight as a game designer.
- Sono - for the extended stay, even though I want to kill you for abandoning my dogs.
- Starbuck - for being disturbingly loyal. Who'd have known?
- Steve - for predicting, in 2004, exactly where I'd be living in 2010... right down to the intersection.
- Studio City - for putting an awesome park at the end of my street.
- Terry - for the best appliance I've ever owned: my coffee grinder. And the offer to take the dogs.
- Tom and Helen - for some kick-ass collaborations.
- Tori - for the Birmingham offer.
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Here's to You, 2010
Just rambling off some thanks and stuff.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
The Hidden Conversation: In Abstract
*Images courtesy of Jayne Harnett-Hargrove
Where was she when the world came to an end? Did she miss it? She must have, since she's still here and the commercials on television as are bad as they've always been. Light beer isn't less filling. They all give her gas. So maybe they are less filling since they pass through so quickly. She's hoping nobody notices. God, life would be more tolerable were she in New York. Or Rome. In the 6th century.
Did they have toilet paper back then? Maybe Wikipedia has a history of toilet paper entry. She hopes so. Such an article would be more useful than all of those ridiculously unimportant football statistics. What happened to intellectualism? No, there's no irony here. Intellectuals use toilet paper. They should, anyway.
Why am I blue? I'm not always depressed. Just seems that way lately.
Just go with it. Like a river. Life's a river. Why fight it? The currents only stop when there's a need to.
Until some engineer invented the dam.
Beavers did it first.
Beavers are pretty fantastic creatures. And so's the innuendo.
A good innuendo is always fantastic. God, I'd love to sleep with James Bond.
Which one?
Don't ask stupid questions. Any of them.
***
Where was he when the world came to an end? Did he miss it? No, he's in the middle of it, he's convinced. Like a yield sign he didn't yield through. The tractor-trailer approaches in slow motion until the last two butterflies caught in the grill are close enough to see. Right before the impact.
Who came up with light beer, anyway? Get me drunk as quickly as possible. No, wait... that's what liquor is for. Heh. Remember that shirt? Johnson's Casino? Liquor in the front, poker in the rear. Maybe it was the other way around. Damn, why do I always devolve into lasciviousness. Did I spell that right?
Why am I blue? It's not like someone drew me that way. Oh, wait...
We are all illustrated creations in the eyes of the creator.
Creations, creator. Sort of a banal combination of words. Repetition sucks, but such is life. We are doomed to repeat history.
Then again, some good things happened in history. Does repeating those constitute doom?
Variety is required to fully enjoy life.
Anheuser-Busch offers variety enough. Budweiser, Bud Light, Bud Dry, Bud Ice, Michelob, Chelada...
Chelada? Where'd that come from?
Probably the website.
***
Where was he when the world came to an end? Did he miss it? No, no. He wasn't born yet. Straight into the afterlife in all of its glory. This is Heaven and Hell. One without the other is an impossible state of being. Our miseries are too much a part of us to be ignored, in life and in death.
Another beer is another beer. Why be picky? It all winds up in the same place. The toilet. Or maybe the dirt. Or, heck, the pavement. Depending on if anyone's looking. Funny how manners are dictated by who else is around. Isn't anyone well-behaved for their own sakes these days?
Why am I blue? Is life really that bad? Well, no. But it's not really that good, either. It just sort of is.
Contradict, much?
One without the other is an impossible state of being. So is repeating oneself. ABC. It's as easy as do-re-mi. Damn, they don't make 'em like the Jackson 5 anymore.
Ben Folds 5?
They were a trio. Marketing gimmick.
And such is life. It's all a gimmick. Gimmickry. That's kind of a cool word. Gimmickry. Rolls off the tongue.
I can think of better things to roll off my tongue.
Damn. Devolving into lasciviousness again.
***
We're just paintings on sheets of music. Conversations hidden behind first impressions. A language few can read and fewer truly understand. Impressionist eyes staring at nothing, save for what's staring at them. Peel back the skin; throw acetone and turpentine on the colors, and what's left? Tabula rasa. Blank pages waiting for another composition. Silent and invisible until the mute and blind give us life. Does any of it matter?
Good questions to ask while enjoying another beer.
I gotta pee.
*Read another interpretation at The Hidden Conversation: In Concrete
Thursday, December 2, 2010
In the Wind
The vortex tears through the landscape, ripping apart everything in its unspoken need to feed oblivion. Objects passing by mere blurs in peripheral vision, though the roar in the air remains a deafening constant. Occasionally, there's a momentary scream, piercing and mercifully brief. He's labeled the ones higher in pitch as "children," and he'd be pained to learn how accurate the connection is. His muscles are exhausted; there are no calories left to burn. But he's holding on with fingers locked. He's no idea what foundation the metal bar is attached to, but he's certain it will not hold forever. For the life of him, he can't figure out why he just doesn't let go. Are seconds of life that precious?
Reality turns inside out. Winds, usually invisible, paint themselves with remnants of dust and water. He can only look down, towards the gaping maw that wants to swallow him. Breathing is almost as difficult as hanging on, and each inhalation feels strangely like a lung has collapsed. He's always wanted to fly, but now only wants to kiss the Earth, even with pieces of it stuck in his throat. There's a chorus of screams, passing marginally slower, and below his feet he sees the bus disappear into the nothingness. A fleeting impression of pity gives way to the realization that, unlike him, they didn't die alone. Perhaps that's what he's waiting for. A companion to travel with to the other side.
The pursuit of knowledge is destroying existence, and the irony is laughable, but the fear of asphyxiation prevents the joke from being enjoyed. There's another joke in watching one's life flash before their eyes, but it's lost its humor in light of everyone's life flashing before his eyes. Density increases under rapidly strengthening gravity, compacting the whole of human history into one small molecule. He can feel his fingers about to snap, the bones fracturing and the ligaments stretching beyond recovery. Hearing more screams, he forces himself to look up. The shape of a body rapidly approaches and he lets go metal in order to grasp flesh.
He doesn't know who the body belongs to and doesn't really care. Eyes stay closed under the sensation of falling. Their embrace is tight, passionate, and cognitive of their ultimate fate. Giving in, he finally appreciates the wind. He's never been in love, doesn't know what it looks like, or even where it lives. Maybe it'll take him there.
Reality turns inside out. Winds, usually invisible, paint themselves with remnants of dust and water. He can only look down, towards the gaping maw that wants to swallow him. Breathing is almost as difficult as hanging on, and each inhalation feels strangely like a lung has collapsed. He's always wanted to fly, but now only wants to kiss the Earth, even with pieces of it stuck in his throat. There's a chorus of screams, passing marginally slower, and below his feet he sees the bus disappear into the nothingness. A fleeting impression of pity gives way to the realization that, unlike him, they didn't die alone. Perhaps that's what he's waiting for. A companion to travel with to the other side.
The pursuit of knowledge is destroying existence, and the irony is laughable, but the fear of asphyxiation prevents the joke from being enjoyed. There's another joke in watching one's life flash before their eyes, but it's lost its humor in light of everyone's life flashing before his eyes. Density increases under rapidly strengthening gravity, compacting the whole of human history into one small molecule. He can feel his fingers about to snap, the bones fracturing and the ligaments stretching beyond recovery. Hearing more screams, he forces himself to look up. The shape of a body rapidly approaches and he lets go metal in order to grasp flesh.
He doesn't know who the body belongs to and doesn't really care. Eyes stay closed under the sensation of falling. Their embrace is tight, passionate, and cognitive of their ultimate fate. Giving in, he finally appreciates the wind. He's never been in love, doesn't know what it looks like, or even where it lives. Maybe it'll take him there.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
An Absence of Proof
"Who decides, huh? Who? This is bullshit."
"I don't know, man. Calm the fuck down."
"Fuck you."
No one's really sure what he's talking about, but everyone knows what he's talking about. Life, death. Maybe a woman. It doesn't really matter what the words are applied to. His mind is moving at the speed of light and every risk he's ever taken is being reevaluated whether he knows it or not. The creation of logic falls to the destruction of hope and back again. A never ending cycle of cognitive thought mixed with the fallacy that the heart can feel.
***
"What's he on about?"
"I dunno. I think someone died."
"Who?"
Some might think it sad that emotional reaction is based on the answer to that question. But he thinks it's natural. He neither cares if someone he's never met dies, nor if somewhere he's never been suffers from a natural disaster. Most of his friends call him apathetic, but a few know he carries a weight they could never bear. The weight of nothing.
***
"You know, if you keep trying to climb higher, it's just gonna hurt more."
"I once read that there's only one thing worse than being alone."
"What was that?"
"Settling."
The song claims that it's small world, after all. But it isn't. Even with dreams of sailing among the stars, no man will ever leave footprints across the entirety of Earth. No woman will ever walk the whole of her home. No one will ever even see it all. It is not knowledge held that destroys the myth that ignorance is bliss. It is the knowledge that there is always something to learn. Fear is not an evil. Fear is what makes something worth doing. "I am not afraid" is the motto of the complacent.
***
"It's a girl. Definitely a girl."
"Figures. Hopeless-ass-romantic."
"Nah. Too hopeful, I think."
"Semantics."
"A word makes all the difference in the world, brother."
Everything is interpreted the way the interpreter wants it. Propaganda is the only true force in human evolution; human civilization. It may or not be an abject lie, but it's a subjective truth and an objective motivation. Laws chip away at pieces of theories left by the wayside, leaving not evidence of fact, but raw impressions of an existence that needs no definition. His life is meant for service. Not because of fate; only because that's what he wants. An absence of self-concern, oft-mistaken for an irresponsible and irreverent attitude, is actually proof that he simply wants to take care of another. And be taken care of.
***
"Don't be an asshole. Be realistic."
"I'm a dick, not an asshole."
"What's the fucking difference?"
"The smell."
Someone once said that if you stand still long enough, the world will come to you. If this is true, the only hope for travelers searching for companions is if they're traveling in opposite directions. It is a chase that never ends and never should. If this is a lie, then a whole lot of people are wasting their time smelling the roses. Yet time is a commodity only valuable as long as it can be remembered. As such, it's worthless, for we will all forget eventually. Memory is the only reason you have something to lose. Imagination is the only reason you have something to gain.
***
"She's out there."
"You're fooling yourself."
"Nah."
"You're setting a standard that no one's ever gonna meet."
"I don't set the standards. People I meet do."
The heart can't feel. The mind does it all. The weight of nothing is overwhelming, lightened only when an emotion can be carried. Fear can lead to love, for a true love will intimidate, if only to test resiliency. He wants her. And he wants her to smile. It is an imagined memory that, one day, he hopes, will come true.
"I don't know, man. Calm the fuck down."
"Fuck you."
No one's really sure what he's talking about, but everyone knows what he's talking about. Life, death. Maybe a woman. It doesn't really matter what the words are applied to. His mind is moving at the speed of light and every risk he's ever taken is being reevaluated whether he knows it or not. The creation of logic falls to the destruction of hope and back again. A never ending cycle of cognitive thought mixed with the fallacy that the heart can feel.
***
"What's he on about?"
"I dunno. I think someone died."
"Who?"
Some might think it sad that emotional reaction is based on the answer to that question. But he thinks it's natural. He neither cares if someone he's never met dies, nor if somewhere he's never been suffers from a natural disaster. Most of his friends call him apathetic, but a few know he carries a weight they could never bear. The weight of nothing.
***
"You know, if you keep trying to climb higher, it's just gonna hurt more."
"I once read that there's only one thing worse than being alone."
"What was that?"
"Settling."
The song claims that it's small world, after all. But it isn't. Even with dreams of sailing among the stars, no man will ever leave footprints across the entirety of Earth. No woman will ever walk the whole of her home. No one will ever even see it all. It is not knowledge held that destroys the myth that ignorance is bliss. It is the knowledge that there is always something to learn. Fear is not an evil. Fear is what makes something worth doing. "I am not afraid" is the motto of the complacent.
***
"It's a girl. Definitely a girl."
"Figures. Hopeless-ass-romantic."
"Nah. Too hopeful, I think."
"Semantics."
"A word makes all the difference in the world, brother."
Everything is interpreted the way the interpreter wants it. Propaganda is the only true force in human evolution; human civilization. It may or not be an abject lie, but it's a subjective truth and an objective motivation. Laws chip away at pieces of theories left by the wayside, leaving not evidence of fact, but raw impressions of an existence that needs no definition. His life is meant for service. Not because of fate; only because that's what he wants. An absence of self-concern, oft-mistaken for an irresponsible and irreverent attitude, is actually proof that he simply wants to take care of another. And be taken care of.
***
"Don't be an asshole. Be realistic."
"I'm a dick, not an asshole."
"What's the fucking difference?"
"The smell."
Someone once said that if you stand still long enough, the world will come to you. If this is true, the only hope for travelers searching for companions is if they're traveling in opposite directions. It is a chase that never ends and never should. If this is a lie, then a whole lot of people are wasting their time smelling the roses. Yet time is a commodity only valuable as long as it can be remembered. As such, it's worthless, for we will all forget eventually. Memory is the only reason you have something to lose. Imagination is the only reason you have something to gain.
***
"She's out there."
"You're fooling yourself."
"Nah."
"You're setting a standard that no one's ever gonna meet."
"I don't set the standards. People I meet do."
The heart can't feel. The mind does it all. The weight of nothing is overwhelming, lightened only when an emotion can be carried. Fear can lead to love, for a true love will intimidate, if only to test resiliency. He wants her. And he wants her to smile. It is an imagined memory that, one day, he hopes, will come true.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
The Hidden Conversation: In Concrete
*Images courtesy of Jayne Harnett-Hargrove
"I think it's stupid, you know?" Energy's always got an opinion. It's usually wrong, fully dependent on superficial information provided by a source she wants to believe because it purports to cater to her.
"You know, you know, you know." Calm doesn't mean the repetition as an insult. It's not his style. Low-key is how he lives his life. He's just tired of useless words. He feels useless enough as it is.
"C'mon, you two." Tired's not the eldest of the three, but he both looks and feels it. Playing peacemaker is exhausting. He's too subdued to know that arguing is even more so. It's this demeanor that makes him welcome company, though he has few steadfast friends.
"I'm not arguing. But you have to admit that it's stupid. Who do these people think they are?"
"Yeah, whatever. You talk about this all the time and never do anything about it. You give a shit as much as the rest of us. Give it up."
You know what would be good right about now? Pretzels. Definitely pretzels. And maybe a beer.
***
Energy is overeducated and underachieved. It's her curse, her ability to understand and grasp a concept with a minimum of input. It's all so very simple, the way the world should work. Fix it from the ground up. Every time. Top down leads to abject failure. Every time. What? Go back to school and start all over? Fuck that, I know enough to make judgement from here.
Calm knows she's stewing. She's full of shit. She doesn't get people. She doesn't get life. So caught up in what it means to be academic that she never learned how to actually do anything. Or understand anyone.
Tired wonders why Calm holds it all in. And finds the irony. How Boheme of her.
***
Calm hasn't seen it all, but he knows he hasn't. He knows when he sees it, he'll have to deal with it. He might not be able to deal with, but he'll try, at least. It's only what directly affects him that has an effect on him. No one really cares who's starving in Rwanda. But, damn... that suicide bomber in Israel was beautiful. What a waste. Why can't I find a woman that beautiful?
Energy is incredulous. Why do I even talk to this idiot?
Tired can read her face. She's an easy face to read. Because he pretends to listen. You need an audience. Even if they're bored to tears.
***
Tired is, well, tired. He's lived a good life, done no one any serious wrong. Nothing he'd admit, anyway. Bygones be bygones and water under the bridge. Everyone can get along, even in the face of politics and religion. Still, they should all subscribe to the Good Book. All of that other crap out there is nothing but bullshit. Do unto others... and judge not, lest...
Energy blames a lot on the powers of history. Especially imaginary ones. God isn't real. He's just an excuse to alleviate personal responsibility.
Calm knows there's a good and bad to everything. Why whine about it? Why do you care, exactly?
***
If Energy could do it all over again, she'd change everything. The abusive boyfriend (never mind that she wouldn't have met the wonderful boyfriend afterward).
(Potential was the best thing to happen to her)
(Yeah, but Kinetic almost killed her)
Her career (she's creative, not corporate).
(No, she isn't)
(Oh, cut her some slack)
She even wonders what would've happened had she turned left at the gas station back in '96 instead of right. Something would've come out for the better, she's sure of it.
Calm wouldn't change a goddamned thing. The ex he chased away (he probably shouldn't have said what he said, though).
(That girl was an idiot)
(So what? He loved her)
His career (he did what he had to do when he had to do it).
(And you still haven't made any money)
(Money's not made you any happier)
Even the argument he had with his best friend the day before he died. It's grounded him. Made him appreciative. And it's part of the journey.
Tired has plenty of regrets. And plenty of hopes. All in all, though, he's content. A man once asked him out on a date (he was confused and thought about it for years afterward... the decision is still pending).
(Just come out of the closet already)
(Why should he? So you can scold him for it? Tell him you told him so?)
His career (he's never been enjoyed any of his jobs, but he's never really hated any, either).
(Do what you love. That's everybody's goal.)
(Speak for yourself).
He likes where he's sitting, right here, right now. Listening to two polar opposites whom he calls friends argue about everything and nothing at all.
***
"It's getting late. I should call it a night." Energy's not tired, she just wants to surf the web, research something on Wikipedia so she can later pretend she's known it her whole life.
"Yeah, it's time get home." Calm's not tired, either. But there's a book that's been sitting on his nightstand for too long and a song he wants to listen to alone in the dark.
"You two should just get married. You already argue like it, anyway." Tired smirks. He's tired. His two friends look at him, teetering between nervous laughter and faux anger. "Just trying to be helpful."
The joke subsides even if the punchline doesn't.
"Good night."
*To be reinterpreted in The Hidden Conversation: In Abstract
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Know When You're Caught
There's a little-known saying among those who, well, engage in less than honorable activities: "Know when you're caught." You might not hear those exact words, but you'll find the sentiment damn near everywhere. Hollywood loves to play on the "calm criminal who takes a nap in jail" theme, and that's pretty much what the saying means. You've been caught. Guilty. Irrefutable evidence. So, learn to take a lesson from professional liars, thieves, wretch hives of scum and villainy, and know when you're caught.
Ironic, I know. All you ever needed to know you learned in Kindergarten... and from criminals.
For whatever reason (and certainly not by any uncommon means of prescience), I've long subscribed to this philosophy. I, like pretty much everyone else, am not a perfect creature. As such, I'm not a perfectly honest creature and sometimes do stupid shit. Certainly not as often as I used to, but it still happens. Despite what you've just read, I have earned (and maintain) an honest reputation. And in another case of irony, I didn't earn it by being completely honest (although I am for the most part... of course, you'll no longer believe that claim), but by fessing up when I've been caught at something.
Irony is definitely theme here.
Seriously, though. If I were caught, be it in a lie or whatever, and I knew or strongly suspected that I was caught, I'd fess up. There would be no argument, no attempt to backtrack or cover up... nothing. I'd just come clean. Let's face it, despite the imperfect nature of human deduction and induction, accusations usually start flying once reasonable doubt has been surpassed (outside of the topics of love and war, of course). I learned this lesson many, many years ago. And I learned to know when I'm caught.
Why am I ranting about this? Well, I'll tell you. A short while ago, someone was caught doing something wrong (not by me, but I quickly jumped in on the investigation). It was determined very quickly that this person knowingly did something wrong. Irrefutable evidence. And, so, we called him out on it.
He "defended" himself with a lie.
So, we called him out on that. Even pointed out how we knew he was lying.
So he "defended" himself with another lie. Then he even tried to alter the evidence (never mind that we had already taken our own sample of it, safely tucked away for our own reference).
By that point we were done with the matter, having already doled out the punishment (as benign as it was), but still used the incident as fodder for jokes.
But this guy... well, he just doesn't know when he's caught. So he went outside of even our sphere of influence to try to convince uninterested parties that he wasn't lying.
Which made for more jokes. But, as I said, by that point we were done with the matter.
And then he "defended" himself again. And repeated a previous lie.
We're still done with the matter and forever will be, but I just felt the need to share this little moral. Know when you're caught.
Ironic, I know. All you ever needed to know you learned in Kindergarten... and from criminals.
For whatever reason (and certainly not by any uncommon means of prescience), I've long subscribed to this philosophy. I, like pretty much everyone else, am not a perfect creature. As such, I'm not a perfectly honest creature and sometimes do stupid shit. Certainly not as often as I used to, but it still happens. Despite what you've just read, I have earned (and maintain) an honest reputation. And in another case of irony, I didn't earn it by being completely honest (although I am for the most part... of course, you'll no longer believe that claim), but by fessing up when I've been caught at something.
Irony is definitely theme here.
Seriously, though. If I were caught, be it in a lie or whatever, and I knew or strongly suspected that I was caught, I'd fess up. There would be no argument, no attempt to backtrack or cover up... nothing. I'd just come clean. Let's face it, despite the imperfect nature of human deduction and induction, accusations usually start flying once reasonable doubt has been surpassed (outside of the topics of love and war, of course). I learned this lesson many, many years ago. And I learned to know when I'm caught.
Why am I ranting about this? Well, I'll tell you. A short while ago, someone was caught doing something wrong (not by me, but I quickly jumped in on the investigation). It was determined very quickly that this person knowingly did something wrong. Irrefutable evidence. And, so, we called him out on it.
He "defended" himself with a lie.
So, we called him out on that. Even pointed out how we knew he was lying.
So he "defended" himself with another lie. Then he even tried to alter the evidence (never mind that we had already taken our own sample of it, safely tucked away for our own reference).
By that point we were done with the matter, having already doled out the punishment (as benign as it was), but still used the incident as fodder for jokes.
But this guy... well, he just doesn't know when he's caught. So he went outside of even our sphere of influence to try to convince uninterested parties that he wasn't lying.
Which made for more jokes. But, as I said, by that point we were done with the matter.
And then he "defended" himself again. And repeated a previous lie.
We're still done with the matter and forever will be, but I just felt the need to share this little moral. Know when you're caught.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
So Cruel; C'est la Vie
*Read while listening... it's kinda cool.
We crossed the line
Who pushed who over?
"Take my hand."
"No."
"You'll fall."
"I will if I take your hand."
It was then he learned that broken trust shall not be mended.
It doesn't matter to you
It matters to me
"On the right! Engage right!"
The squad shifts, trying to save what's left from the ambush. He's certain he issued the wrong orders.
It was then he learned that any action is better than none at all.
We're cut adrift
We're still floating
"I should've been there, you know?"
"You can't save the world, man."
"I don't want to save the world. I want my friends back."
"You can't save the world, man."
I'm only hanging on
To watch you go down
My love
"Do you even love me?"
"No."
"Did you ever?"
"Does it matter?"
I disappeared in you
You disappeared from me
"I can't see."
"Calm down, bro. Just some blood in your eyes."
"I can't see."
"Calm down. I'm right here."
It was then he learned the true value of a shoulder to lean on.
I gave you everything you ever wanted
It wasn't what you wanted
"Don't you just, you know, want to be happy?"
"Sure. Who doesn't?"
"Then why don't you smile?"
"I haven't earned it yet."
The men who love you, you hate the most
They pass right through you like a ghost
"Shit, dude. She's fucking beautiful."
"I know."
"Then what's the problem?"
"That's what bothers me."
It was then he learned when to walk away.
They look for you, but your spirit is in the air
Baby, you're nowhere
"I'm not saying you should. But I'm not saying you shouldn't."
"I don't play vague, yo."
"Neither do I."
"That's specific, then?"
You say in love there are no rules
Sweet heart, you're so cruel
"Stay on my six. Follow me out."
"I'm scared, Sergeant."
"It's cool. I've already shit my pants. On three, okay?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
Desperation is a tender trap
It gets you every time
"You've never seen a woman that just took your breath away?"
"Sure, I guess. That scares you?"
"Yeah, that scares me."
"Life ain't worth living if you're not afraid."
It was then he learned the value of a cliché.
You put your lips to her lips
To stop the lie
"I think you're a coward."
"Never said I wasn't."
"You're a walking contradiction."
"Never said I wasn't."
Her skin is pale like God's only dove
Screams like an angel for your love
"I'm not sure I'm cut out for this."
"None of us are. We just pretend to like it."
"Do you like it?"
"Fuck no, it's terrifying. But what a fucking rush."
It was then he learned he was meant to be a paratrooper.
Then she makes you watch her from above
And you need her like a drug
"If I leave, I'm not coming back."
"I'm counting on it."
"You never loved me, did you?"
"Is that a rhetorical question?"
You say in love there are no rules
Sweet heart, you're so cruel
"You're obsessed."
"I know, I know. I'll get over it."
"When?"
"When the time is right."
It was then he decided to shoot for the stars.
She wears my love like a see-through dress
Her lips say one thing
Her movements something else
"I was a dick to him the last time I saw him."
"He forgives you, man. Don't let it get to you."
"I know, but... fuck, dude."
"We've all been there."
Oh love, like a screaming flower
Love, dying every hour
"Why didn't you answer the phone?"
"Kinda tired of your shit."
"I needed you."
"No, you didn't."
You don't know if it's fear or desire
Danger the drug that takes you higher
Head in heaven, fingers in the mire
"You've fallen in love with an impression."
"That impression has been better for me than reality."
"You say that now, but you're gonna be disappointed."
"I'm already disappointed. Might as well enjoy the view."
Her heart is racing, you can't keep up
The night is bleeding like a cut
"What are you running from? Nobody's pushing you."
"I'm not running from anything."
"Bullshit. Bull-fucking-shit."
"I'm gonna go now."
It was then he realized he was running.
Between the horses of love and lust
We are trampled underfoot
"Help me. Please."
"I've got you. Hang on."
"I can't feel my legs."
"Hang on."
You say in love there are no rules
Sweet heart, you're so cruel
"I don't know what to do. I don't even care."
"Yeah, well, you'll never change."
"Scary, isn't it?"
"Not really. Just remember, it's all so fucking hilarious."
To stay with you I'd be a fool
Sweet heart, you're so cruel
"Wherever you go, there you are."
"That's my line."
"I'm stealing it. Don't be a stranger."
"I won't. I'll be back."
It was then he found his smile.
We crossed the line
Who pushed who over?
"Take my hand."
"No."
"You'll fall."
"I will if I take your hand."
It was then he learned that broken trust shall not be mended.
It doesn't matter to you
It matters to me
"On the right! Engage right!"
The squad shifts, trying to save what's left from the ambush. He's certain he issued the wrong orders.
It was then he learned that any action is better than none at all.
We're cut adrift
We're still floating
"I should've been there, you know?"
"You can't save the world, man."
"I don't want to save the world. I want my friends back."
"You can't save the world, man."
I'm only hanging on
To watch you go down
My love
"Do you even love me?"
"No."
"Did you ever?"
"Does it matter?"
I disappeared in you
You disappeared from me
"I can't see."
"Calm down, bro. Just some blood in your eyes."
"I can't see."
"Calm down. I'm right here."
It was then he learned the true value of a shoulder to lean on.
I gave you everything you ever wanted
It wasn't what you wanted
"Don't you just, you know, want to be happy?"
"Sure. Who doesn't?"
"Then why don't you smile?"
"I haven't earned it yet."
The men who love you, you hate the most
They pass right through you like a ghost
"Shit, dude. She's fucking beautiful."
"I know."
"Then what's the problem?"
"That's what bothers me."
It was then he learned when to walk away.
They look for you, but your spirit is in the air
Baby, you're nowhere
"I'm not saying you should. But I'm not saying you shouldn't."
"I don't play vague, yo."
"Neither do I."
"That's specific, then?"
You say in love there are no rules
Sweet heart, you're so cruel
"Stay on my six. Follow me out."
"I'm scared, Sergeant."
"It's cool. I've already shit my pants. On three, okay?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
Desperation is a tender trap
It gets you every time
"You've never seen a woman that just took your breath away?"
"Sure, I guess. That scares you?"
"Yeah, that scares me."
"Life ain't worth living if you're not afraid."
It was then he learned the value of a cliché.
You put your lips to her lips
To stop the lie
"I think you're a coward."
"Never said I wasn't."
"You're a walking contradiction."
"Never said I wasn't."
Her skin is pale like God's only dove
Screams like an angel for your love
"I'm not sure I'm cut out for this."
"None of us are. We just pretend to like it."
"Do you like it?"
"Fuck no, it's terrifying. But what a fucking rush."
It was then he learned he was meant to be a paratrooper.
Then she makes you watch her from above
And you need her like a drug
"If I leave, I'm not coming back."
"I'm counting on it."
"You never loved me, did you?"
"Is that a rhetorical question?"
You say in love there are no rules
Sweet heart, you're so cruel
"You're obsessed."
"I know, I know. I'll get over it."
"When?"
"When the time is right."
It was then he decided to shoot for the stars.
She wears my love like a see-through dress
Her lips say one thing
Her movements something else
"I was a dick to him the last time I saw him."
"He forgives you, man. Don't let it get to you."
"I know, but... fuck, dude."
"We've all been there."
Oh love, like a screaming flower
Love, dying every hour
"Why didn't you answer the phone?"
"Kinda tired of your shit."
"I needed you."
"No, you didn't."
You don't know if it's fear or desire
Danger the drug that takes you higher
Head in heaven, fingers in the mire
"You've fallen in love with an impression."
"That impression has been better for me than reality."
"You say that now, but you're gonna be disappointed."
"I'm already disappointed. Might as well enjoy the view."
Her heart is racing, you can't keep up
The night is bleeding like a cut
"What are you running from? Nobody's pushing you."
"I'm not running from anything."
"Bullshit. Bull-fucking-shit."
"I'm gonna go now."
It was then he realized he was running.
Between the horses of love and lust
We are trampled underfoot
"Help me. Please."
"I've got you. Hang on."
"I can't feel my legs."
"Hang on."
You say in love there are no rules
Sweet heart, you're so cruel
"I don't know what to do. I don't even care."
"Yeah, well, you'll never change."
"Scary, isn't it?"
"Not really. Just remember, it's all so fucking hilarious."
To stay with you I'd be a fool
Sweet heart, you're so cruel
"Wherever you go, there you are."
"That's my line."
"I'm stealing it. Don't be a stranger."
"I won't. I'll be back."
It was then he found his smile.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Chase the Day
Ah, shit yeah... Or "shichya," as it's more phonetically spelled. It's a saying I picked up from an Australian friend of mine and, truth be told, people around my neck of the woods often wonder why the Hell I'm saying it. I don't really know the technical reasons behind why I say it, but I use it for the same reason I use anything: it works.
My closest friends know what a fucking roller coaster I've been on since early 2006. Really, long before that, when I went from having more money than I needed to having almost none at all. Lots of factors played into that - some external, others self-inflicted - but, damn... you learn who your friends are when you're that close to rock-bottom. And I've got the best of the best. It took everyone I know to help sift through four years of utter confusion. Everyone I know and then some, for I'd be remiss in not mentioning the kindness of many strangers. Through it all, I've found that my enemies are insignificant and easily ignored. In fact, I wish them all the very best in life. As long as they don't cross my path again, of course.
I don't know if the Sufi or the Jews coined the term, but "This, too, shall pass," is about as certain as death and taxes. Oh, I've touted it, but I know it now. Some things take a little longer; need a little more patience; require a little more effort, but they'll pass. Tomorrow's coming whether you want it to or not. How fucking wonderful is that?
I've not yet returned to the physical shape I was in back in 2007 - arguably the best shape of my life - but I'm almost there. There's even an added bonus this time. In 2007, my left foot wasn't being properly rehabilitated. It is now... and I can almost taste the mountain air and the deep ocean water I'll be able to expose myself to again. It's been far too long. Someone I admire once said that if you stop moving, you might as well be dead. Yeah... totally. Never mind that moving too fast can kill you, as well. Been there, done that... I'm still here. At least speed is exhilarating.
It's been an eight-year journey to get to where I'm at. Eight insane years. Outside of maybe 1989 - a year that's value in my life has only recently become truly realized - and 2000 - a year I wasn't yet mature enough to deal with - 2002 through 2010 marked the biggest changes in my outlook, my perspectives, my beliefs. Everything I thought I knew up to that point was effectively proven wrong amid a rapid-fire succession of change. Locations, loves, schools, careers, you name it. No stability whatsoever. Just a pretty convincing facade of it. No, that's not entirely true... I was stubbornly resisting change in some fucked up desire to win a conflict I had no business fighting.
Taking chances - something I'd long been accustomed to - suddenly seemed foolish. Instead of rolling with the punches, I tried to hold on to some ill-conceived plan of world domination. It almost fucking killed me - figuratively and literally. But, after 2006, that all slowly started to reverse itself. Four years down, as it were, and four years up.
That's not to say this resurgence was of my own making. Not entirely and, I'll probably have to admit at one point or another, not even primarily. There were plenty of well-placed slaps and kicks in the ass that got me back to where I needed to be... where I should've been the whole time. Slaps and kicks from both friend and foe at the most unexpected - and opportune - of times. Face it, people... those around you know you better than you know yourself. And when strangers figure you out before you yourself do... it's just all the more profound.
So I started taking chances again, albeit in the wrong direction. But, hey, I'm not perfect. And, besides, that first wrong-way chance got my career kick-started. I knew something was wrong, though. I knew I was in the wrong place and for all the wrong reasons. At least I knew, though... which is more than I can say about all of the previous fuck-ups.
And then came 2009. The year I let the career go down the drain. Not sure what I was thinking, but I'm betting it had something to do with my physical location. I was, literally, in a place I did not want to be. But that summer was pretty awesome. Again, the right people - friend and stranger - at the right time. And I got off my ass and took a leap.
Then another. And another.
Now, I'm almost running again. It feels great. The wind is blowing the bullshit out of my hair. That can't happen sitting around. 2011's looking good. I'm sure that everything I think I know will effectively be proven wrong amid a rapid-fire succession of change. But this time, that's the point.
Next April I'm reengaging my quest to visit every country in the world, beginning with a month in Australia. I've always been a creature of momentum, ever since I left the roost at 17. That I got stuck is beside the point. I ain't stuck now. There are some things I want that are elsewhere in the world, and I'm going to go see if I can have them. Carpe diem? Nah...
It's a saying I've used a lot, but its is a false premise; a false promise and a false hope. We are incapable of seizing any day, never mind any other moment in time. But we can, however, chase it. And, as another saying goes, the chase is where all the fun is. C'est la vie.
I'm coming. Shichya.
***
* It's all about the moment, the here and now, and perhaps a little about what comes next. * Go out on a limb once in a while... somebody's there for you, you know. * Having no direction isn't necessarily being lost, though being lost is a prerequisite for finding your way. * The world is moving faster than you ever will, and will move longer than you can possibly be remembered. * a stubborn refusal to accept an overwhelming sense of embarrassment or shame prevents any acknowledgment of such defining moments of life. * The more beautiful it is, the better to kill you with. * The days when a mirror was just another toy are long gone. Reflections no longer reflective, the face staring back just another enemy, allied with the onslaught of time. * A lie is a weight the wind will not carry. * It's remembered how it wants to be. The chase, the trap, an act of foolish bravery or cautious abandon to feel what couldn't be said. * Tomorrow, sunrise will begin the chase again. * Are you going to do something, or are you going to watch it burn? * No worries. The sunrise will greet you in the morning. Whether or not it lights the way home is another matter entirely. * You'll know when the clock is right, for motion and thought will blur into one. And when it does, don't hesitate. * There's a scream of triumph as youthful lust streaks through cloud, finally knowing what it means to fly. * Why you’re smiling as the world starts tumbling finally makes sense. It’s too late to stop, and you didn’t want to, anyway. * If it's going to happen, there's no need to worry about it. * Life's picking up speed, and people you don't want to leave behind are going to be left behind. * The world is a large place until you've seen it all. And when that happens, you can just make up another. * Maybe that's why so many people choose to live in the desert... the grass isn't greener on the other side, because there's only tumbleweed. * Whoever made the mistake of attributing Red to love never understood what it meant to be angry. * Mirages are a good thing to follow, however, when you think about it. They do have a tendency to keep you moving. * Precipitation on the precipice, flowing down the path of least resistance while wondering what it would be like to be a flake of snow. * This is not a summit's peak, but a cliff's edge, and the difference is unimportant. Get up. If you're going to fall, do it here, do it now. There's still air beneath you. *
My closest friends know what a fucking roller coaster I've been on since early 2006. Really, long before that, when I went from having more money than I needed to having almost none at all. Lots of factors played into that - some external, others self-inflicted - but, damn... you learn who your friends are when you're that close to rock-bottom. And I've got the best of the best. It took everyone I know to help sift through four years of utter confusion. Everyone I know and then some, for I'd be remiss in not mentioning the kindness of many strangers. Through it all, I've found that my enemies are insignificant and easily ignored. In fact, I wish them all the very best in life. As long as they don't cross my path again, of course.
I don't know if the Sufi or the Jews coined the term, but "This, too, shall pass," is about as certain as death and taxes. Oh, I've touted it, but I know it now. Some things take a little longer; need a little more patience; require a little more effort, but they'll pass. Tomorrow's coming whether you want it to or not. How fucking wonderful is that?
I've not yet returned to the physical shape I was in back in 2007 - arguably the best shape of my life - but I'm almost there. There's even an added bonus this time. In 2007, my left foot wasn't being properly rehabilitated. It is now... and I can almost taste the mountain air and the deep ocean water I'll be able to expose myself to again. It's been far too long. Someone I admire once said that if you stop moving, you might as well be dead. Yeah... totally. Never mind that moving too fast can kill you, as well. Been there, done that... I'm still here. At least speed is exhilarating.
It's been an eight-year journey to get to where I'm at. Eight insane years. Outside of maybe 1989 - a year that's value in my life has only recently become truly realized - and 2000 - a year I wasn't yet mature enough to deal with - 2002 through 2010 marked the biggest changes in my outlook, my perspectives, my beliefs. Everything I thought I knew up to that point was effectively proven wrong amid a rapid-fire succession of change. Locations, loves, schools, careers, you name it. No stability whatsoever. Just a pretty convincing facade of it. No, that's not entirely true... I was stubbornly resisting change in some fucked up desire to win a conflict I had no business fighting.
Taking chances - something I'd long been accustomed to - suddenly seemed foolish. Instead of rolling with the punches, I tried to hold on to some ill-conceived plan of world domination. It almost fucking killed me - figuratively and literally. But, after 2006, that all slowly started to reverse itself. Four years down, as it were, and four years up.
That's not to say this resurgence was of my own making. Not entirely and, I'll probably have to admit at one point or another, not even primarily. There were plenty of well-placed slaps and kicks in the ass that got me back to where I needed to be... where I should've been the whole time. Slaps and kicks from both friend and foe at the most unexpected - and opportune - of times. Face it, people... those around you know you better than you know yourself. And when strangers figure you out before you yourself do... it's just all the more profound.
So I started taking chances again, albeit in the wrong direction. But, hey, I'm not perfect. And, besides, that first wrong-way chance got my career kick-started. I knew something was wrong, though. I knew I was in the wrong place and for all the wrong reasons. At least I knew, though... which is more than I can say about all of the previous fuck-ups.
And then came 2009. The year I let the career go down the drain. Not sure what I was thinking, but I'm betting it had something to do with my physical location. I was, literally, in a place I did not want to be. But that summer was pretty awesome. Again, the right people - friend and stranger - at the right time. And I got off my ass and took a leap.
Then another. And another.
Now, I'm almost running again. It feels great. The wind is blowing the bullshit out of my hair. That can't happen sitting around. 2011's looking good. I'm sure that everything I think I know will effectively be proven wrong amid a rapid-fire succession of change. But this time, that's the point.
Next April I'm reengaging my quest to visit every country in the world, beginning with a month in Australia. I've always been a creature of momentum, ever since I left the roost at 17. That I got stuck is beside the point. I ain't stuck now. There are some things I want that are elsewhere in the world, and I'm going to go see if I can have them. Carpe diem? Nah...
It's a saying I've used a lot, but its is a false premise; a false promise and a false hope. We are incapable of seizing any day, never mind any other moment in time. But we can, however, chase it. And, as another saying goes, the chase is where all the fun is. C'est la vie.
I'm coming. Shichya.
***
* It's all about the moment, the here and now, and perhaps a little about what comes next. * Go out on a limb once in a while... somebody's there for you, you know. * Having no direction isn't necessarily being lost, though being lost is a prerequisite for finding your way. * The world is moving faster than you ever will, and will move longer than you can possibly be remembered. * a stubborn refusal to accept an overwhelming sense of embarrassment or shame prevents any acknowledgment of such defining moments of life. * The more beautiful it is, the better to kill you with. * The days when a mirror was just another toy are long gone. Reflections no longer reflective, the face staring back just another enemy, allied with the onslaught of time. * A lie is a weight the wind will not carry. * It's remembered how it wants to be. The chase, the trap, an act of foolish bravery or cautious abandon to feel what couldn't be said. * Tomorrow, sunrise will begin the chase again. * Are you going to do something, or are you going to watch it burn? * No worries. The sunrise will greet you in the morning. Whether or not it lights the way home is another matter entirely. * You'll know when the clock is right, for motion and thought will blur into one. And when it does, don't hesitate. * There's a scream of triumph as youthful lust streaks through cloud, finally knowing what it means to fly. * Why you’re smiling as the world starts tumbling finally makes sense. It’s too late to stop, and you didn’t want to, anyway. * If it's going to happen, there's no need to worry about it. * Life's picking up speed, and people you don't want to leave behind are going to be left behind. * The world is a large place until you've seen it all. And when that happens, you can just make up another. * Maybe that's why so many people choose to live in the desert... the grass isn't greener on the other side, because there's only tumbleweed. * Whoever made the mistake of attributing Red to love never understood what it meant to be angry. * Mirages are a good thing to follow, however, when you think about it. They do have a tendency to keep you moving. * Precipitation on the precipice, flowing down the path of least resistance while wondering what it would be like to be a flake of snow. * This is not a summit's peak, but a cliff's edge, and the difference is unimportant. Get up. If you're going to fall, do it here, do it now. There's still air beneath you. *
Monday, August 30, 2010
People Change
I crack myself up. In doing the "Irrewinds" here, I force myself to peruse old writings in order to come up with hopefully interesting things to revisit. Though far from a journal or a diary, the tone of the pieces and the subject matter I tended to address at given points in time serve as powerful reminders of what was going on in my own life at the time of their writing. Looking back on some of them, I'm embarrassed by quite a few. Humbled by others. But, they all make me laugh. More than once I've sat back and asked myself, "What the fuck was I thinking?" On a few occasions, I actually don't recall the answer.
If my own pointless musings are anything to judge by, I don't think I can ever say "people don't change" again and actually mean it. Sure, absent something extraordinary, people remain largely consistent, but there are always changes. Some tiny, minuscule, seemingly insignificant. Others noticeable, grand, seemingly profound. It's kinda cool, really. I can point to things I wrote about geopolitical issues just a couple of years ago - melodramatic and clearly passionate in their telling - that I don't believe now (whether from a change in mood or the acquisition of new information is beside the point). Such an observable phenomena might even make it hard for me to criticize wishy-washy politicians in the future (nah... probably not...).
Even within the creative writing found here I can see changes - again, some subtle, others drastic. There is a definite sense of hesitation in some of the older works - likely from a fear of writing honest characters - which all but disappears after my "ah ha!" moment in which writing sex (real sex, mind you... not superficial humpy sex or sex for shock value) ceased to be taboo. And it's fun to notice shifts in everything from preferred genres, to emotions, to words used a little too often during certain spurts of so-called creativity. I'm not claiming there's been a consistent level of improvement in anything... just that there's a consistent level of change.
Anyway, people change. To say otherwise is being disingenuous. Or, perhaps, being too old. But you all probably know this already.
If my own pointless musings are anything to judge by, I don't think I can ever say "people don't change" again and actually mean it. Sure, absent something extraordinary, people remain largely consistent, but there are always changes. Some tiny, minuscule, seemingly insignificant. Others noticeable, grand, seemingly profound. It's kinda cool, really. I can point to things I wrote about geopolitical issues just a couple of years ago - melodramatic and clearly passionate in their telling - that I don't believe now (whether from a change in mood or the acquisition of new information is beside the point). Such an observable phenomena might even make it hard for me to criticize wishy-washy politicians in the future (nah... probably not...).
Even within the creative writing found here I can see changes - again, some subtle, others drastic. There is a definite sense of hesitation in some of the older works - likely from a fear of writing honest characters - which all but disappears after my "ah ha!" moment in which writing sex (real sex, mind you... not superficial humpy sex or sex for shock value) ceased to be taboo. And it's fun to notice shifts in everything from preferred genres, to emotions, to words used a little too often during certain spurts of so-called creativity. I'm not claiming there's been a consistent level of improvement in anything... just that there's a consistent level of change.
Anyway, people change. To say otherwise is being disingenuous. Or, perhaps, being too old. But you all probably know this already.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
And They Dance...
"I need to get the fuck out of here." He's a wanderer by nature. A wistful heart who knows the world passes everyone by without so much as a by your leave.
"Where you gonna go?" His roommate doesn't really care, but sympathy behind a cigarette is easy enough to offer.
"Don't give a shit. Anywhere." Smoke and ash dissipate beneath a ceiling fan as if showing the way.
***
"I just need to go somewhere." She's a wanderer by design. A wondering heart who knows the world is out there to be seen.
"Aw, honey. I understand, but I wish you wouldn't." Her mother often claims to want her daughter to leave the roost, but the two very much resemble inseparable friends. It's going to break her heart.
"I have to." The crack is almost audible.
***
It is at different times they stand on the same cliff, taking in the wondrous natural beauty of waterfall and canopied jungle below. Thoughts of jumping off may initially alarm, but they are thoughts accompanied by impressions of rope and carabiner. Exhilaration is a necessity, for neither feels alive without it.
It is at different times they swim in the same waters of the same beach, cautious of the invisible barrage from the sun and the currents that could sweep them away. Reckless abandon, for them, is anything but reckless. Few are as aware as either of their easily forgotten roles in the world. There is no reason to conform to anything that, at its core, is little more than chaos. And it is both how and why they understand.
***
"Where are you from?" the Dominican asks. She's beautiful and her English is quite natural in tone. Hell, she's probably from Miami.
He answers with a flippant gesture of hands, the implication of everywhere and nowhere at all.
"What does that mean?"
"Whatever it needs to."
Though the response intrigues her, she can tell he's already bored.
***
"Where are you from?" the Frenchman asks. He's traditionally handsome and picturesque. But she can tell he's looking for a one-nighter.
She answers with not only the city of her origin, but of the suburb. Home, for her, is very specific.
"I used to travel there a bit," he lies, quite obviously.
She asks him a question anyone who's ever seen her hometown would know the answer to. She can't help but laugh when he pretends he's late for an engagement and walks off in embarrassment.
***
He loves an ill-advised adventure down alleys locals warn not to take. Far from suicidal, there is something about this dance that makes the world worth surviving for. To appreciate beauty, one must know ugly. And the knife-wielding thugs are rightfully ugly. Should he come out on top, there will be no guilt in adding to their ugliness.
When it's over his palm is sliced open, though he retains full range of motion with his hand and fingers. A good sign. Neither of the thugs are seriously injured. The one running away tends a fracture mid-forearm while the other stares in disbelief at the sight of his own blade sticking out from his thigh.
Being lost in chaos tastes as good as he remembers.
***
She adores letting it all go in the middle of a dance floor. Self-consciousness dissipates amid the tempo of music and the twirl of hair under black light. Controlled motion depicting out-of-control emotion bridges the gap between being there and knowing where she needs to be. A beautiful stillness is to be had in beautiful movement.
When the music stops she finally notices the eyes of men temporarily in love with her form. It is a motivation she doesn't need, but fully appreciates. Her heartbeat slows down as she gathers her belongings and disappears into the night. It's almost time to return home.
Finding meaning in chaos is as calming as it's ever been.
***
It is in different places they realize they're together, with friends they'll never meet sifting their own ways through the detritus of loneliness. The world, solitary as it is, never stops. And neither will they.
So they dance.
"Where you gonna go?" His roommate doesn't really care, but sympathy behind a cigarette is easy enough to offer.
"Don't give a shit. Anywhere." Smoke and ash dissipate beneath a ceiling fan as if showing the way.
***
"I just need to go somewhere." She's a wanderer by design. A wondering heart who knows the world is out there to be seen.
"Aw, honey. I understand, but I wish you wouldn't." Her mother often claims to want her daughter to leave the roost, but the two very much resemble inseparable friends. It's going to break her heart.
"I have to." The crack is almost audible.
***
It is at different times they stand on the same cliff, taking in the wondrous natural beauty of waterfall and canopied jungle below. Thoughts of jumping off may initially alarm, but they are thoughts accompanied by impressions of rope and carabiner. Exhilaration is a necessity, for neither feels alive without it.
It is at different times they swim in the same waters of the same beach, cautious of the invisible barrage from the sun and the currents that could sweep them away. Reckless abandon, for them, is anything but reckless. Few are as aware as either of their easily forgotten roles in the world. There is no reason to conform to anything that, at its core, is little more than chaos. And it is both how and why they understand.
***
"Where are you from?" the Dominican asks. She's beautiful and her English is quite natural in tone. Hell, she's probably from Miami.
He answers with a flippant gesture of hands, the implication of everywhere and nowhere at all.
"What does that mean?"
"Whatever it needs to."
Though the response intrigues her, she can tell he's already bored.
***
"Where are you from?" the Frenchman asks. He's traditionally handsome and picturesque. But she can tell he's looking for a one-nighter.
She answers with not only the city of her origin, but of the suburb. Home, for her, is very specific.
"I used to travel there a bit," he lies, quite obviously.
She asks him a question anyone who's ever seen her hometown would know the answer to. She can't help but laugh when he pretends he's late for an engagement and walks off in embarrassment.
***
He loves an ill-advised adventure down alleys locals warn not to take. Far from suicidal, there is something about this dance that makes the world worth surviving for. To appreciate beauty, one must know ugly. And the knife-wielding thugs are rightfully ugly. Should he come out on top, there will be no guilt in adding to their ugliness.
When it's over his palm is sliced open, though he retains full range of motion with his hand and fingers. A good sign. Neither of the thugs are seriously injured. The one running away tends a fracture mid-forearm while the other stares in disbelief at the sight of his own blade sticking out from his thigh.
Being lost in chaos tastes as good as he remembers.
***
She adores letting it all go in the middle of a dance floor. Self-consciousness dissipates amid the tempo of music and the twirl of hair under black light. Controlled motion depicting out-of-control emotion bridges the gap between being there and knowing where she needs to be. A beautiful stillness is to be had in beautiful movement.
When the music stops she finally notices the eyes of men temporarily in love with her form. It is a motivation she doesn't need, but fully appreciates. Her heartbeat slows down as she gathers her belongings and disappears into the night. It's almost time to return home.
Finding meaning in chaos is as calming as it's ever been.
***
It is in different places they realize they're together, with friends they'll never meet sifting their own ways through the detritus of loneliness. The world, solitary as it is, never stops. And neither will they.
So they dance.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Lost Kingdom
Her daughter is upset. This is, to Nicole, no surprise. All of her daughters' friends are married or in relationships that are almost certain to lead to marriage and her daughter often succumbs to the terrible weight of being alone. There's nothing Nicole can do, of course, and she's long since learned to let Kylie play out her own misery. It never lasts long, though. What's starting to bother Nicole is that it's starting to happen so often. And not just to Kylie.
"Oh, you'll find someone soon," she'll invariably tell her daughter. She's proud - extremely proud - that Kylie refuses to give in and lower the standards she set for herself, but sometimes wonders if the alternative might actually be a better lifestyle. Both women are single, Kylie in her early 20s and lifetimes yet to live; Nicole in her mid-50s and curious about how long a sunset can last. That Kylie is her child is the only reason Nicole's own desire for companionship is not the primary concern. Living vicariously will not make Nicole happy - this she already knows - but it keeps her going. She is her daughter's rock and she does not wish to let Kylie see just how brittle it's become.
Nicole's husband died when Kylie was barely three-years-old. A moment's combination of wrong place, wrong time ending in tragedy, as such moments tend to do. A fire at work, set by the building's owner as part of insurance scam, caused a heart attack. Forgotten in the panic, he was left inside by his co-workers. Nicole never learned what actually killed him. She hopes it was the heart attack, for the other is too much for her thoughts to handle.
Not religious, nor raising her children that way - Kylie has a little sister - there was nevertheless a profoundness at her husband's funeral. The priest had chosen the Lord's Prayer as the final petition, and as it came to close, "For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever," little Kylie looked up at her mother and asked, "Daddy lost his kingdom?"
No, darling, came the thought, I did. Looking down into Kylie's eyes, another thought quickly followed. And I will never let you lose yours. It is a vow that, even Nicole might admit, she has taken just a bit too seriously.
The truth is that Nicole is as lonely as her daughter. Indeed, even when Nicole meets and identifies young men that would be "perfect" for Kylie, there's almost always a subtle acknowledgment that these men would have been perfect for herself. Adding to the irony is the fact that most daughters are hesitant to accept men found and recommended by their parents, and Kylie is certainly loathe to do so - for she knows her mother as well as her mother knows her. Still, it provides Nicole the opportunity for a harmless flirt, ostensibly pitching her beautiful daughter to eligible men while fueling herself with enough lustrous banter to get through the week.
It is during one of her ostentatious flirts that her own loneliness becomes the subject of conversation. Nicole had been working on this one for a while and his willing vulnerability had the unintended effect of fostering a vulnerability of her own. "You know," she starts, only partially aware of what she's about to say, "if you were just a bit older or I a bit younger. Or both." The abandonment of fear that allowed her to say that immediately dissipates upon saying it. His reaction may break her heart, but he only smiles and offers a pragmatic reply. "3.5 billion men in the world, Nicole. You'll find one experienced, unafraid, and unwilling to waste any more time wallowing in his own loneliness." He pauses, though Nicole can tell there's something left unsaid. In reluctant acceptance of the entire situation, he adds, "And your daughter will, too."
As a Christmas present later that year, Kylie takes Nicole to a city Nicole's often dreamed of, but never had the chance to visit. Taken by the beauty of a snow-covered Moscow, Nicole allows her concerns - both of herself and of her daughter - to disappear in fields of white. Even the "random" appearance of one of Kylie's old boyfriends doesn't dissuade Niicole's spirits and, anyway, she's happy that Kylie is enjoying the company of a man.
Wandering through the cold streets of the Russian capital, Nicole slowly realizes that an evening has never felt so romantic to her, despite the fact that she's alone. The Spasskaya and Ostakino towers are as beautiful at night in person as they are in photographs. Touching the walls of St. Basil's Cathedral with her own fingers is almost as profound an experience as a three-year-old's daughters confused words. And even the skyline of the IBC seems to shout at Nicole in defiance of a shared loneliness. By the time Nicole is too cold to continue her sojourn, she doesn't even mind the ugliness of the dirty slush covering the city's roads. Indeed, Nicole decides, her night is far from over. "Can you recommend a good cafe?" she asks the taxi driver. "Of course," he replies with the same smile she saw in a pragmatic boy thousands of miles away.
At the French Cafe, just outside of the center of the city, she removes her overcoat and her ushanka and sits at the bar. She laughs gently as the bartender mistakes her for an American, but takes solace that they speak excellent English here. It will make her sampling of white wines far easier.
While taking her slow ride to inebriation, she glances casually around the cafe, taking note of all of the couples, what they're wearing, and how they whisper sweet - or lascivious, she hopes - things in each others' ears. She sees a man in a corner who, she can tell, carefully observes the room. He's roughly her age, perhaps a bit younger, and though his eyes point mainly at his table and his quickly emptying wine glasses, there's no question he's completely aware of everything going on around him. Upon her second - or is it her third? - glance, she thinks she sees a smile. Ah, been caught, she muses, deciding she should probably keep to herself in a city so foreign and, perhaps, so dangerous. Although danger to her, at the moment, denotes something completely different... something rather inviting. She smiles, orders a glass of a Chardonnay she's never had - nor even heard of - and fades into her glass. To her, this is a perfect evening devoid of perfection, but the ambiance of the night comforts her and refuses to let her give into any negative emotion. Nicole wonders what Kylie is up to and hopes that her friend doesn't have a surprise girlfriend who might ruin Kylie's evening.
It's just like her. Can't stop worrying about my baby girl. Living vicariously does not make Nicole happy, but it does keep her going. And long enough that the bartender jokes there are almost no more wines to sample. She's about to return the humor when the bartender smiles, turns, and rudely walks away. "Hey, I'm not finished with you yet, you," she scolds. She has quite the scolding voice and expression, and she might as well try it on a Russian.
"Excuse me." A voice behind her. One experienced, unafraid, and unwilling to waste any more time. "May I join you?"
She's not even turned her head before her heart skips a beat.
"Oh, you'll find someone soon," she'll invariably tell her daughter. She's proud - extremely proud - that Kylie refuses to give in and lower the standards she set for herself, but sometimes wonders if the alternative might actually be a better lifestyle. Both women are single, Kylie in her early 20s and lifetimes yet to live; Nicole in her mid-50s and curious about how long a sunset can last. That Kylie is her child is the only reason Nicole's own desire for companionship is not the primary concern. Living vicariously will not make Nicole happy - this she already knows - but it keeps her going. She is her daughter's rock and she does not wish to let Kylie see just how brittle it's become.
Nicole's husband died when Kylie was barely three-years-old. A moment's combination of wrong place, wrong time ending in tragedy, as such moments tend to do. A fire at work, set by the building's owner as part of insurance scam, caused a heart attack. Forgotten in the panic, he was left inside by his co-workers. Nicole never learned what actually killed him. She hopes it was the heart attack, for the other is too much for her thoughts to handle.
Not religious, nor raising her children that way - Kylie has a little sister - there was nevertheless a profoundness at her husband's funeral. The priest had chosen the Lord's Prayer as the final petition, and as it came to close, "For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever," little Kylie looked up at her mother and asked, "Daddy lost his kingdom?"
No, darling, came the thought, I did. Looking down into Kylie's eyes, another thought quickly followed. And I will never let you lose yours. It is a vow that, even Nicole might admit, she has taken just a bit too seriously.
The truth is that Nicole is as lonely as her daughter. Indeed, even when Nicole meets and identifies young men that would be "perfect" for Kylie, there's almost always a subtle acknowledgment that these men would have been perfect for herself. Adding to the irony is the fact that most daughters are hesitant to accept men found and recommended by their parents, and Kylie is certainly loathe to do so - for she knows her mother as well as her mother knows her. Still, it provides Nicole the opportunity for a harmless flirt, ostensibly pitching her beautiful daughter to eligible men while fueling herself with enough lustrous banter to get through the week.
It is during one of her ostentatious flirts that her own loneliness becomes the subject of conversation. Nicole had been working on this one for a while and his willing vulnerability had the unintended effect of fostering a vulnerability of her own. "You know," she starts, only partially aware of what she's about to say, "if you were just a bit older or I a bit younger. Or both." The abandonment of fear that allowed her to say that immediately dissipates upon saying it. His reaction may break her heart, but he only smiles and offers a pragmatic reply. "3.5 billion men in the world, Nicole. You'll find one experienced, unafraid, and unwilling to waste any more time wallowing in his own loneliness." He pauses, though Nicole can tell there's something left unsaid. In reluctant acceptance of the entire situation, he adds, "And your daughter will, too."
As a Christmas present later that year, Kylie takes Nicole to a city Nicole's often dreamed of, but never had the chance to visit. Taken by the beauty of a snow-covered Moscow, Nicole allows her concerns - both of herself and of her daughter - to disappear in fields of white. Even the "random" appearance of one of Kylie's old boyfriends doesn't dissuade Niicole's spirits and, anyway, she's happy that Kylie is enjoying the company of a man.
Wandering through the cold streets of the Russian capital, Nicole slowly realizes that an evening has never felt so romantic to her, despite the fact that she's alone. The Spasskaya and Ostakino towers are as beautiful at night in person as they are in photographs. Touching the walls of St. Basil's Cathedral with her own fingers is almost as profound an experience as a three-year-old's daughters confused words. And even the skyline of the IBC seems to shout at Nicole in defiance of a shared loneliness. By the time Nicole is too cold to continue her sojourn, she doesn't even mind the ugliness of the dirty slush covering the city's roads. Indeed, Nicole decides, her night is far from over. "Can you recommend a good cafe?" she asks the taxi driver. "Of course," he replies with the same smile she saw in a pragmatic boy thousands of miles away.
At the French Cafe, just outside of the center of the city, she removes her overcoat and her ushanka and sits at the bar. She laughs gently as the bartender mistakes her for an American, but takes solace that they speak excellent English here. It will make her sampling of white wines far easier.
While taking her slow ride to inebriation, she glances casually around the cafe, taking note of all of the couples, what they're wearing, and how they whisper sweet - or lascivious, she hopes - things in each others' ears. She sees a man in a corner who, she can tell, carefully observes the room. He's roughly her age, perhaps a bit younger, and though his eyes point mainly at his table and his quickly emptying wine glasses, there's no question he's completely aware of everything going on around him. Upon her second - or is it her third? - glance, she thinks she sees a smile. Ah, been caught, she muses, deciding she should probably keep to herself in a city so foreign and, perhaps, so dangerous. Although danger to her, at the moment, denotes something completely different... something rather inviting. She smiles, orders a glass of a Chardonnay she's never had - nor even heard of - and fades into her glass. To her, this is a perfect evening devoid of perfection, but the ambiance of the night comforts her and refuses to let her give into any negative emotion. Nicole wonders what Kylie is up to and hopes that her friend doesn't have a surprise girlfriend who might ruin Kylie's evening.
It's just like her. Can't stop worrying about my baby girl. Living vicariously does not make Nicole happy, but it does keep her going. And long enough that the bartender jokes there are almost no more wines to sample. She's about to return the humor when the bartender smiles, turns, and rudely walks away. "Hey, I'm not finished with you yet, you," she scolds. She has quite the scolding voice and expression, and she might as well try it on a Russian.
"Excuse me." A voice behind her. One experienced, unafraid, and unwilling to waste any more time. "May I join you?"
She's not even turned her head before her heart skips a beat.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Living Backwards
"Ka-blam, elimination! Lack of education!" - Big Mama, The Fox and the Hound, 1981
She's heard the term, "a child going older," but she never realized that most were applying it to her. A false halo filled with the pride of a false independence hung gently and comfortingly over her head. She'd only paid rent at one place in her entire life, and that was at a discounted rate a brother had secured for her. Her first time away from home ended in disaster. Her second time, too. Still, she tried everything to fake growing up and out. After all, living off of parents is the only thing that signifies remaining a child, right? Living with a grandparent, a sister, a boyfriend, a co-worker, and a husband of convenience was simply part of the plan to make independence less expensive.
When your dirty clothes are piled to the ceiling is not the time to learn how to do laundry. When your footprints let you know where you've tread is not the time to learn how to use the vacuum. That your hand was held so tightly is only killing you now. That your eyes only ever looked to the shadows of your parents is why the world seems so strange. Hear no, see no, speak no does not apply to knowledge, but you revel in your ignorance and call it innocence.
She's loathe to accept cautions for what they are, preferring instead to interpret them as criticisms, never stopping to realize that people are trying to help. False halos from those who do not believe in her god will not affect her, regardless of their benevolence. Her Tower of Babylon is already built and those who love her watch in futility as she tumbles down its steps. She adores the descent, though, ignoring the bruises and convincing herself that no flight is accomplished without pain. Without the stern prodding of a parent toward the edge of the nest, she remains afraid to truly fly. Adults only learn to glide on the wind by flapping their wings and this one refuses to flap.
When you finally hit the ground, expect no womb to return to. When you finally accept that your wings are too old to learn to fly, expect no sympathy. Convince yourself that your god fated this life for you as wonder why happiness is so elusive. Convince yourself that independent thought is dependent on constellations and Tarot cards. Hear no, see no, speak no does not apply to wisdom, but you revel in your eradication and call it experience.
She's heard the term, "a child going older," but she never realized that most were applying it to her. A false halo filled with the pride of a false independence hung gently and comfortingly over her head. She'd only paid rent at one place in her entire life, and that was at a discounted rate a brother had secured for her. Her first time away from home ended in disaster. Her second time, too. Still, she tried everything to fake growing up and out. After all, living off of parents is the only thing that signifies remaining a child, right? Living with a grandparent, a sister, a boyfriend, a co-worker, and a husband of convenience was simply part of the plan to make independence less expensive.
When your dirty clothes are piled to the ceiling is not the time to learn how to do laundry. When your footprints let you know where you've tread is not the time to learn how to use the vacuum. That your hand was held so tightly is only killing you now. That your eyes only ever looked to the shadows of your parents is why the world seems so strange. Hear no, see no, speak no does not apply to knowledge, but you revel in your ignorance and call it innocence.
She's loathe to accept cautions for what they are, preferring instead to interpret them as criticisms, never stopping to realize that people are trying to help. False halos from those who do not believe in her god will not affect her, regardless of their benevolence. Her Tower of Babylon is already built and those who love her watch in futility as she tumbles down its steps. She adores the descent, though, ignoring the bruises and convincing herself that no flight is accomplished without pain. Without the stern prodding of a parent toward the edge of the nest, she remains afraid to truly fly. Adults only learn to glide on the wind by flapping their wings and this one refuses to flap.
When you finally hit the ground, expect no womb to return to. When you finally accept that your wings are too old to learn to fly, expect no sympathy. Convince yourself that your god fated this life for you as wonder why happiness is so elusive. Convince yourself that independent thought is dependent on constellations and Tarot cards. Hear no, see no, speak no does not apply to wisdom, but you revel in your eradication and call it experience.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Checkmate
She's always been the type to lie. Her initial reaction to any statement that ended in a question mark. The truth left her empty - always did; always will - so why not lie?
Funny that an honest man is better at it than she is.
He'd lost interest in her long ago. And she knows she needs to be with another liar. It's the only way for her life to mean anything. He should just get up and walk away, but she challenged him to this game. And he's stubborn about challenges.
"I love you," she says. It is an opening move meant to disarm, but he's seen that one before.
"I don't care." Riposte. A pawn in the open. Will she chase it? Or does she still not know the rules?
"You never did." She tries to widen her puppy-dog eyes, knowing the value of visual reinforcement. They quickly shift to a disgruntled squint in response to his refusal to take his own eyes off the board.
He does see her expression - both of them - and holds back a confident laugh. She's beautiful, no question about that, but if ever the cliché concerning inner beauty were true, it is now. Her pale skin hides tissue diseased in its existence. A rotting corpse living in a spoiled and wasted body, white knights foolishly attempting rescue. Bishops skirting the issue from corner to corner.
Good thing, then, that the rook prefers the blunt, direct approach. "Your move," is his only response.
They are queen and king in every sense of the irony. She, powerful in motion and overbearing beyond the limits of patience, failing to recognize that she exists only to protect her king. He, subtle in motion and preferring to hide behind a wall of peers, failing to recognize that his queen is his best asset. Still, he can survive without a queen. She is lost without a king.
She castles, shifting her king to another location. It is a strategy that does not exist in the real world. A lie on the battlefield. How apropos, he thinks. How useful, is her own thought on the matter.
White falls to black and black to white, leaving chips of gray in the wake of simplistic frays. He lives here, in the gray, knowing that is how the world works. She prefers the black and white of wrong and right... and as long as she is on one side, she believes her motives to be pure.
"I've never lied to you," she claims, knowing he will recognize this as a lie. Still, better than a half-truth, which she oddly disdains. One or the other is her philosophy. Purity, if one would.
"A secret is a lie." It is a statement not intended for her, for she is unwittingly incapable of keeping secrets. But he knows it will piss her off.
It does. With a quick and violent swipe, the board and its pieces are sent to the floor. He flinches, holding his hands close to his chest.
"You don't get it! I just wanted to be happy!" she yells.
"And what does that entail, exactly?" It is a question she's never been able to answer, not even with a lie.
"Fuck you." Ah, that old staple. She storms off.
He can't resist. "You lose."
She turns and glares at him. "We didn't finish." There is pride in her sarcasm, both in her voice and in her eyes. She begins to laugh and leaves the room.
Watching the door slam shut, he allows a small smile. He no longer cares to prove anything to her. Opening his left hand, his king is revealed. Placing it on the table, bereft of battlefield, of ally, and - most importantly - of enemy, he whispers, "Checkmate."
He pities her, truly. Such a person can never be happy, and he knows she knows it. Searching for pieces of games she will never finish, she will be as empty of life as the room will be when he, too, leaves.
Closing the door behind him, he takes one last glance at the king on the table. Devoid of conflict, it stands alone, content in its peace. And patiently awaiting the next player.
Funny that an honest man is better at it than she is.
He'd lost interest in her long ago. And she knows she needs to be with another liar. It's the only way for her life to mean anything. He should just get up and walk away, but she challenged him to this game. And he's stubborn about challenges.
"I love you," she says. It is an opening move meant to disarm, but he's seen that one before.
"I don't care." Riposte. A pawn in the open. Will she chase it? Or does she still not know the rules?
"You never did." She tries to widen her puppy-dog eyes, knowing the value of visual reinforcement. They quickly shift to a disgruntled squint in response to his refusal to take his own eyes off the board.
He does see her expression - both of them - and holds back a confident laugh. She's beautiful, no question about that, but if ever the cliché concerning inner beauty were true, it is now. Her pale skin hides tissue diseased in its existence. A rotting corpse living in a spoiled and wasted body, white knights foolishly attempting rescue. Bishops skirting the issue from corner to corner.
Good thing, then, that the rook prefers the blunt, direct approach. "Your move," is his only response.
They are queen and king in every sense of the irony. She, powerful in motion and overbearing beyond the limits of patience, failing to recognize that she exists only to protect her king. He, subtle in motion and preferring to hide behind a wall of peers, failing to recognize that his queen is his best asset. Still, he can survive without a queen. She is lost without a king.
She castles, shifting her king to another location. It is a strategy that does not exist in the real world. A lie on the battlefield. How apropos, he thinks. How useful, is her own thought on the matter.
White falls to black and black to white, leaving chips of gray in the wake of simplistic frays. He lives here, in the gray, knowing that is how the world works. She prefers the black and white of wrong and right... and as long as she is on one side, she believes her motives to be pure.
"I've never lied to you," she claims, knowing he will recognize this as a lie. Still, better than a half-truth, which she oddly disdains. One or the other is her philosophy. Purity, if one would.
"A secret is a lie." It is a statement not intended for her, for she is unwittingly incapable of keeping secrets. But he knows it will piss her off.
It does. With a quick and violent swipe, the board and its pieces are sent to the floor. He flinches, holding his hands close to his chest.
"You don't get it! I just wanted to be happy!" she yells.
"And what does that entail, exactly?" It is a question she's never been able to answer, not even with a lie.
"Fuck you." Ah, that old staple. She storms off.
He can't resist. "You lose."
She turns and glares at him. "We didn't finish." There is pride in her sarcasm, both in her voice and in her eyes. She begins to laugh and leaves the room.
Watching the door slam shut, he allows a small smile. He no longer cares to prove anything to her. Opening his left hand, his king is revealed. Placing it on the table, bereft of battlefield, of ally, and - most importantly - of enemy, he whispers, "Checkmate."
He pities her, truly. Such a person can never be happy, and he knows she knows it. Searching for pieces of games she will never finish, she will be as empty of life as the room will be when he, too, leaves.
Closing the door behind him, he takes one last glance at the king on the table. Devoid of conflict, it stands alone, content in its peace. And patiently awaiting the next player.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Nostalgia
*Readers (who actually read) and have good memories might remember some of these lines from an earlier piece (Calm; Stay). Much of what I knock out starts in multiple forms and I wanted to see how different I could make something that previously turned into something else.
She's mostly a silhouette as she enters the bookstore, blinding sunlight behind her. That he can barely see her, knowing she can clearly see him, makes it difficult to maintain any pretense of nonchalance. He wants to wait for her to come to him, but anxiety overcomes and he moves to meet her halfway. His steps are soft, confident, deliberate in their attempt to give nothing away.
A heartbeat tries desperately to chase the presence of a first impression long forgotten, but the embrace happens before it can remember. A dying memory brought to life by something new: touch. And the subtle scent of skin moistened from a now-welcomed humidity. There's the taste of coffee, too, but only because he's been drinking some.
The embrace breaks and there's hope that she notices only a nervous smile. He's afraid she can hear the nervous heartbeats overwhelming a mind moving too slowly to comprehend, but she says nothing as she returns the smile. Never was an instant more exhilarating.
***
Arms touch in the movie theater and each pretends not to notice. There will be no kiss in this facade of a reunion between long-lost friends, but she makes sure to leave enough residual lipstick on the straw of his drink she casually takes a sip from.
***
Alcohol overtakes conversation in a near-abandoned Cuban restaurant. He wanted her years ago and is in awe of the serendipity that has reunited them 14 years after and 2500 miles away from where they first met. Until now, the only time they've met.
It seems, though, that the reunion is to be short-lived. Life journeys, started in the same place, are traveling opposite directions and passing at a random point in time. He is leaving for another place and another life. She is leaving for another place and the life he had just left. He, unhappy where he's been, longs to return somewhere he can smile about. She, unhappy where she's been, has never found that place. Hints of sadness reveal themselves in the admission of being lost in a sense of nostalgia. Longings for paths not taken.
"And I'm the nostalgia," she says. It is a statement as perceptive as it is sad.
He doesn't believe it matters, though, for everyone carries their past wherever they may go. But he'll not see her much longer, of that he's certain. This time, the divergence of their paths is to be permanent. She's to be so much more than nostalgia.
She's mostly a silhouette as she enters the bookstore, blinding sunlight behind her. That he can barely see her, knowing she can clearly see him, makes it difficult to maintain any pretense of nonchalance. He wants to wait for her to come to him, but anxiety overcomes and he moves to meet her halfway. His steps are soft, confident, deliberate in their attempt to give nothing away.
A heartbeat tries desperately to chase the presence of a first impression long forgotten, but the embrace happens before it can remember. A dying memory brought to life by something new: touch. And the subtle scent of skin moistened from a now-welcomed humidity. There's the taste of coffee, too, but only because he's been drinking some.
The embrace breaks and there's hope that she notices only a nervous smile. He's afraid she can hear the nervous heartbeats overwhelming a mind moving too slowly to comprehend, but she says nothing as she returns the smile. Never was an instant more exhilarating.
***
Arms touch in the movie theater and each pretends not to notice. There will be no kiss in this facade of a reunion between long-lost friends, but she makes sure to leave enough residual lipstick on the straw of his drink she casually takes a sip from.
***
Alcohol overtakes conversation in a near-abandoned Cuban restaurant. He wanted her years ago and is in awe of the serendipity that has reunited them 14 years after and 2500 miles away from where they first met. Until now, the only time they've met.
It seems, though, that the reunion is to be short-lived. Life journeys, started in the same place, are traveling opposite directions and passing at a random point in time. He is leaving for another place and another life. She is leaving for another place and the life he had just left. He, unhappy where he's been, longs to return somewhere he can smile about. She, unhappy where she's been, has never found that place. Hints of sadness reveal themselves in the admission of being lost in a sense of nostalgia. Longings for paths not taken.
"And I'm the nostalgia," she says. It is a statement as perceptive as it is sad.
He doesn't believe it matters, though, for everyone carries their past wherever they may go. But he'll not see her much longer, of that he's certain. This time, the divergence of their paths is to be permanent. She's to be so much more than nostalgia.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
A-M-L-C-S
Strange... as I talked to a friend the other day, the subject of women came up. I guess that part's not strange, since I talk about women often, but this particular conversation went specifically to women whom I've been "enamored" with. Now, as a blatant hopeless romantic and serial-luster who "falls in love" at least once per day, even I figured this number to be relatively high. Much to my surprise, though, it's not (please do not interpret anything you read here as boasting or bragging that I'm some sort of "ladies man," for I am anything but).
In attempting to determining my "enamors" (using subjective standards, of course), I considered women that I've 1) fantasized over for significant periods of time - excluding celebrities - 2) pursued, regardless of success rate, or 3) legitimately dated or otherwise spent significant amounts of time with. This number was, I'll admit, a bit high. But while trying to figure out how to eliminate those who obviously didn't qualify as enamors, it dawned on me... I've always written about what Chazz Palmintieri's character in A Bronx Tale refers to as "the great ones." And I'm not talking little puberty-induced pornographic tales in high school, or amalgamating a real woman into a fictional character...
I've written about these women. Quite in-depth and quite often. And, in counting them, there are only five. That's it. Five. Five women I've ever seriously considered spending the rest of my life with. No more; no less.
The first was "A," and I met her at my first college. For three-and-a-half years, I had a bit of an arbitrary rule I adhered to: no relationships while I'm active duty. And I didn't. There were plenty of almosts, should Is, I want tos, and shits-she's-gorgeous, but I never gave in. Call it a misplaced sense of discipline (well, yeah... that's what it was), but somehow I never gave in. Until I did.
After my first tour I, reenlisted and attended a semester of college as a reward for staying in the Army. And there she was. "A." She was (and is, to this day) extraordinarily beautiful. A dark-haired, pale-skinned wonder from Ecuador. At the time, were I to close my eyes and imagine my perfect woman, "A" would've have been extremely close. And, as a young hopeless romantic, there were poems written of her. Nothing any good, of course, since I didn't yet understand poetry (probably still don't, to be honest), but it was written.
"M" followed "A" rather quickly, almost to the point of overlap. Putting it simply, "A" lost interest before the dust had even settled, and I went on my merry way. Just after that semester ended, a friend of mine introduced me to "M" who, as luck would have it, lived a mere 500 miles away. Still, we hit it off and maintained the relationship across the distance. Poetry was written for this one, too. Better than the stuff for "A," but still pretty bad.
"M" called the relationship off after I did something extremely stupid (no, I didn't cheat on her, nor did anything that could've gotten me arrested) and it fucked me up emotionally for about the next year-and-a-half. I almost even got myself thrown out of the Army during the fallout. All ended well, though, and we were even civil to each other at a wedding we both went to (that of the friend who introduced us, actually).
Granted, with both "A" and "M," I was still very young (that's my excuse and I'm sticking with it).
A couple of years after "M," there was "L," a local girl whom I broke another arbitrary rule for (no local girls). "L" would become, to this day, my longest relationship. And, probably by no accident, my worst. It lasted about 7 years longer than it should have, but there were money and assets involved, and so things devolved into a bit of a twisted chess match. She sucks at chess, but she won anyhow (if anyone could be called a winner). I wear no scars from women save from "L."
"L" is, frankly, the subject of at least 75% of the poetry I've written (though not here). She's also the subject of several woe-is-me rants and is even the basis for many villainous characters in stories I've written. Yes, there's a bad taste in mouth from "L," but I honestly don't hold any ill-will towards her (anymore, that is). And, in point of fact, given that so much has been written of her by myself, she is undeniably one of my enamors.
In the midst of "L" (in-between, actually... we had several break-ups and I never cheated on her... or anybody, for that matter), there was "C." The result of breaking yet another arbitrary rule (no one under 24), "C" was extremely young and a bit naive, but oh, such a thing to look at. And she was deceptively sweet. Though feelings weren't exchanged between us until after I left the East Coast, we reunited for a time upon my return. Most know how shitty 2006 was to me, emotionally-speaking, and "C" helped me through it. Her 2006 was pretty bad, itself, and we took advantage of that old cliché: misery loves company. She wound up in several poems, a couple of short stories, and even inspired a character (along with Natalie Portman... heh) in an early script.
Unfortunately (or fortunately... yeah, likely fortunately), we were both surrounded by other relationships that kept getting in the way. That, and she revealed herself to be dishearteningly materialistic and a tad crazy (whoa, the temper on that one). Needless to say, that one faded into history.
Two years later, during the tail end of purging "L" from my life, there was "S," the most pragmatic woman I know. A bit serendipitous, and never what I would call a real relationship, I had actually met "S" 14 years before I ran into her again. By simple providence, we had wound up living in the same part of the country, some 2800 miles away from where we first met.
As implied, "S" - unlike the others - was only peripherally an object of desire. There was too much going on in our individual lives, anyway... I was leaving the East Coast again and trying to avoid the military. She was staying and trying to join the military. But she did something for me that no one else did... the right person at the right time, in essence... she kicked me in the ass and helped get my life back in gear (she was, actually, the person who finally convinced me to completely let "L" go). She's also the primary muse behind my proliferation in writing this past year or so (there is an entire week's worth of writing dedicated to her). For that, she's enamored.
And that makes five.
Except... I haven't been completely honest. There's a sixth. I'm trying very hard for there not to be; I've got shit to take care of, after all... and I need there to be no distractions until I can afford distractions. Especially not one so young, beautiful, and on her way. Thankfully, this sixth is more an idea and an image and less a real person, allowing me to maintain some semblance of practicality.
Problem is... I'm writing about her. And there's no chance of her ever leaving the page.
Somebody shoot me.
In attempting to determining my "enamors" (using subjective standards, of course), I considered women that I've 1) fantasized over for significant periods of time - excluding celebrities - 2) pursued, regardless of success rate, or 3) legitimately dated or otherwise spent significant amounts of time with. This number was, I'll admit, a bit high. But while trying to figure out how to eliminate those who obviously didn't qualify as enamors, it dawned on me... I've always written about what Chazz Palmintieri's character in A Bronx Tale refers to as "the great ones." And I'm not talking little puberty-induced pornographic tales in high school, or amalgamating a real woman into a fictional character...
I've written about these women. Quite in-depth and quite often. And, in counting them, there are only five. That's it. Five. Five women I've ever seriously considered spending the rest of my life with. No more; no less.
The first was "A," and I met her at my first college. For three-and-a-half years, I had a bit of an arbitrary rule I adhered to: no relationships while I'm active duty. And I didn't. There were plenty of almosts, should Is, I want tos, and shits-she's-gorgeous, but I never gave in. Call it a misplaced sense of discipline (well, yeah... that's what it was), but somehow I never gave in. Until I did.
After my first tour I, reenlisted and attended a semester of college as a reward for staying in the Army. And there she was. "A." She was (and is, to this day) extraordinarily beautiful. A dark-haired, pale-skinned wonder from Ecuador. At the time, were I to close my eyes and imagine my perfect woman, "A" would've have been extremely close. And, as a young hopeless romantic, there were poems written of her. Nothing any good, of course, since I didn't yet understand poetry (probably still don't, to be honest), but it was written.
"M" followed "A" rather quickly, almost to the point of overlap. Putting it simply, "A" lost interest before the dust had even settled, and I went on my merry way. Just after that semester ended, a friend of mine introduced me to "M" who, as luck would have it, lived a mere 500 miles away. Still, we hit it off and maintained the relationship across the distance. Poetry was written for this one, too. Better than the stuff for "A," but still pretty bad.
"M" called the relationship off after I did something extremely stupid (no, I didn't cheat on her, nor did anything that could've gotten me arrested) and it fucked me up emotionally for about the next year-and-a-half. I almost even got myself thrown out of the Army during the fallout. All ended well, though, and we were even civil to each other at a wedding we both went to (that of the friend who introduced us, actually).
Granted, with both "A" and "M," I was still very young (that's my excuse and I'm sticking with it).
A couple of years after "M," there was "L," a local girl whom I broke another arbitrary rule for (no local girls). "L" would become, to this day, my longest relationship. And, probably by no accident, my worst. It lasted about 7 years longer than it should have, but there were money and assets involved, and so things devolved into a bit of a twisted chess match. She sucks at chess, but she won anyhow (if anyone could be called a winner). I wear no scars from women save from "L."
"L" is, frankly, the subject of at least 75% of the poetry I've written (though not here). She's also the subject of several woe-is-me rants and is even the basis for many villainous characters in stories I've written. Yes, there's a bad taste in mouth from "L," but I honestly don't hold any ill-will towards her (anymore, that is). And, in point of fact, given that so much has been written of her by myself, she is undeniably one of my enamors.
In the midst of "L" (in-between, actually... we had several break-ups and I never cheated on her... or anybody, for that matter), there was "C." The result of breaking yet another arbitrary rule (no one under 24), "C" was extremely young and a bit naive, but oh, such a thing to look at. And she was deceptively sweet. Though feelings weren't exchanged between us until after I left the East Coast, we reunited for a time upon my return. Most know how shitty 2006 was to me, emotionally-speaking, and "C" helped me through it. Her 2006 was pretty bad, itself, and we took advantage of that old cliché: misery loves company. She wound up in several poems, a couple of short stories, and even inspired a character (along with Natalie Portman... heh) in an early script.
Unfortunately (or fortunately... yeah, likely fortunately), we were both surrounded by other relationships that kept getting in the way. That, and she revealed herself to be dishearteningly materialistic and a tad crazy (whoa, the temper on that one). Needless to say, that one faded into history.
Two years later, during the tail end of purging "L" from my life, there was "S," the most pragmatic woman I know. A bit serendipitous, and never what I would call a real relationship, I had actually met "S" 14 years before I ran into her again. By simple providence, we had wound up living in the same part of the country, some 2800 miles away from where we first met.
As implied, "S" - unlike the others - was only peripherally an object of desire. There was too much going on in our individual lives, anyway... I was leaving the East Coast again and trying to avoid the military. She was staying and trying to join the military. But she did something for me that no one else did... the right person at the right time, in essence... she kicked me in the ass and helped get my life back in gear (she was, actually, the person who finally convinced me to completely let "L" go). She's also the primary muse behind my proliferation in writing this past year or so (there is an entire week's worth of writing dedicated to her). For that, she's enamored.
And that makes five.
Except... I haven't been completely honest. There's a sixth. I'm trying very hard for there not to be; I've got shit to take care of, after all... and I need there to be no distractions until I can afford distractions. Especially not one so young, beautiful, and on her way. Thankfully, this sixth is more an idea and an image and less a real person, allowing me to maintain some semblance of practicality.
Problem is... I'm writing about her. And there's no chance of her ever leaving the page.
Somebody shoot me.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
A Slow Crawl to a Cliff's Edge
If ever there was needed a reminder of how brutal life is, none is needed now. Blood in the sands, falling from the skies, obscuring the seas. That there is a wound is obvious. Where it is... less so. There's a ridge just up ahead; perhaps the view from it will reveal all. Wise men are found on mountains, yes? Perhaps there is wisdom to found.
There's blood under fingernails, and legs can't be felt, but survival requires movement and becoming a feast for carrion is not yet a given. There are wings circling overhead. Manmade? Or feathered? One could be rescue. Both could be death.
Streets in the desert don't care what they're called, for they're still desert. The mountains ahead have a name, surely, but they don't seem to mind their own namelessness. They are and will be for some time; it is a crawling man who is in danger of fading. But nature designed him resilient, and feral thought will not allow surrender. Even if conscience does.
An inch at a time eventually becomes miles, and distance is ultimately crossed. Knowing how far would be desirable and, likely, responsible. But greed felt in lungs struggling to breathe spreads to hands grasping at purchases to pull them along in a desire to be defined by living.
This is not a summit's peak, but a cliff's edge, and the difference is unimportant. Get up. If you're going to fall, do it here, do it now. There's still air beneath you.
There's blood under fingernails, and legs can't be felt, but survival requires movement and becoming a feast for carrion is not yet a given. There are wings circling overhead. Manmade? Or feathered? One could be rescue. Both could be death.
Streets in the desert don't care what they're called, for they're still desert. The mountains ahead have a name, surely, but they don't seem to mind their own namelessness. They are and will be for some time; it is a crawling man who is in danger of fading. But nature designed him resilient, and feral thought will not allow surrender. Even if conscience does.
An inch at a time eventually becomes miles, and distance is ultimately crossed. Knowing how far would be desirable and, likely, responsible. But greed felt in lungs struggling to breathe spreads to hands grasping at purchases to pull them along in a desire to be defined by living.
This is not a summit's peak, but a cliff's edge, and the difference is unimportant. Get up. If you're going to fall, do it here, do it now. There's still air beneath you.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Beautiful Water
In the blue, over the blue, twin seas collide. Patience amid chaos, currents of wind and water caught between the hopes of breath and blood, longing for a moment that will never come. Storms of fury, propelled by lust, levied by the construct that some call love. But, they are not, and it is not. Merely the glint of beauty under a sun that shines everywhere, as long as they are nowhere.
In the blue, over the blue, hopes give way to reality. Impatience amid order, nature continuing her course between invention and convention, coming to a moment that never happened. A hurricane of thought, eroding memories unlived, but imagined. She is beautiful, though alone. Hints of what lies beneath blinded by a face that would again launch a thousand ships.
She is blue, within the blue, alive on a literal and figurative island. Patience amid order, following the rain as it washes away conscience and the remains of the day. Precipitation on the precipice, flowing down the path of least resistance while wondering what it would be like to be a flake of snow. Creativity gives way to necessity, and tears obscure a visage so wonderful when smiling.
There is no blue within the blue, as one shade fades into the next. Impatience amid chaos, enjoying the arrival of coming and going on a whim. She loves being wanted and wants to be loved, but knows that rivers of desires run to no command but their own. There is no beauty like water's, and none like the tiny beads of sweat, almost imperceptible, on the body of a woman I'll never see.
In the blue, over the blue, hopes give way to reality. Impatience amid order, nature continuing her course between invention and convention, coming to a moment that never happened. A hurricane of thought, eroding memories unlived, but imagined. She is beautiful, though alone. Hints of what lies beneath blinded by a face that would again launch a thousand ships.
She is blue, within the blue, alive on a literal and figurative island. Patience amid order, following the rain as it washes away conscience and the remains of the day. Precipitation on the precipice, flowing down the path of least resistance while wondering what it would be like to be a flake of snow. Creativity gives way to necessity, and tears obscure a visage so wonderful when smiling.
There is no blue within the blue, as one shade fades into the next. Impatience amid chaos, enjoying the arrival of coming and going on a whim. She loves being wanted and wants to be loved, but knows that rivers of desires run to no command but their own. There is no beauty like water's, and none like the tiny beads of sweat, almost imperceptible, on the body of a woman I'll never see.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Separation Anxiety
I'm in the process of giving up my pets, and it sucks. No, it's not a permanent situation, merely one borne of necessity as I attempt to resettle into an oversized city and get back to work. As soon as I'm able to acquire a place with a decent backyard, I'll retrieve my four-legged companions (all five of the bastards) and live happily ever after... at least in terms of cats and dogs.
I've done it before with two of my dogs (Jasper and Starbuck), but this will mark the first time that I'll be separated long-term from my alpha male (Jax, who's very close to getting his nuts chopped off) and the two most loyal cats I've ever known (Kay and Sagremor). Oh, there's a possibility Jax's adopted mother won't be able to handle him and he'll wind up with me in the city of angels, but until that presents itself, I'm planning on not seeing him for a while.
And it sucks.
I'm not a worrier. That gene seems generally absent from my DNA, but I am going to feel a bit sad at not being able to run and spoil these guys (yes, they're all male... that's another story). I know this beyond any reasonable doubt. A while back I drove to Las Vegas for some work. This drive marked the first time I made a long-distance drive without my dogs in the back of my truck. I couldn't help but checking the bed every so often to make sure they were doing okay, even though there was nothing back there.
And now I'll be making another long-distance drive to drop them off with a friend of mine so I can concentrate on getting back into the industry that I left over a year ago. And it sucks. I can already see myself suffering from depressing separation anxiety on the drive back. It's bad enough that I've already left my two cats with my reluctant but willing sister. I feel as though I'm somehow punishing them for their loyalty (that, too, is another story).
But, people have to do what they have to do.
It still sucks.
Sucks, sucks, sucks, sucks, sucks.
I've done it before with two of my dogs (Jasper and Starbuck), but this will mark the first time that I'll be separated long-term from my alpha male (Jax, who's very close to getting his nuts chopped off) and the two most loyal cats I've ever known (Kay and Sagremor). Oh, there's a possibility Jax's adopted mother won't be able to handle him and he'll wind up with me in the city of angels, but until that presents itself, I'm planning on not seeing him for a while.
And it sucks.
I'm not a worrier. That gene seems generally absent from my DNA, but I am going to feel a bit sad at not being able to run and spoil these guys (yes, they're all male... that's another story). I know this beyond any reasonable doubt. A while back I drove to Las Vegas for some work. This drive marked the first time I made a long-distance drive without my dogs in the back of my truck. I couldn't help but checking the bed every so often to make sure they were doing okay, even though there was nothing back there.
And now I'll be making another long-distance drive to drop them off with a friend of mine so I can concentrate on getting back into the industry that I left over a year ago. And it sucks. I can already see myself suffering from depressing separation anxiety on the drive back. It's bad enough that I've already left my two cats with my reluctant but willing sister. I feel as though I'm somehow punishing them for their loyalty (that, too, is another story).
But, people have to do what they have to do.
It still sucks.
Sucks, sucks, sucks, sucks, sucks.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Trophies for No One
Her children are less a responsibility and more of a reminder of victory, however Pyrrhic. She's bored by them and doesn't even really want them around, but her divorce was ugly and, well, she wanted to "win." Full custody escaped her, but the 50/50 arrangement is enough to make her smile. Her ex-husband already has complete custody of three other children by two other women, and she'd be damned if he got her three. It is an empty victory, but a victory nonetheless.
***
"Mom, can we play Battleship?" Jasmine asks. She's the eldest child, 11 years old, and a complete tomboy. She's going to be attractive, of this there's no doubt in anybody's mind, but she doesn't let her mother comb her hair or dress her up. It's a secret source of annoyance for the mother.
"I'm watching television. Play in your room and be quiet." One might think there'd be a pang of guilt in such a response, but the doctor is just about to save the life of a wounded paraplegic who looks like the doctor's dead fiancée and, come on now, who wants to miss that?
Jasmine walks away, her frown barely hidden. She pauses during her retreat when she hears her mother stir suddenly, but apparently that is simply the result of a cliffhanger ending eliciting a subdued disappointment at reading "To Be Continued..." on the screen. Jasmine can barely make out the beginning of a Viagra commercial as she closes her bedroom door.
***
Harlon is 10 and plans on being a ninja when he grows up. Or a pirate. Despite his youth, even he finds it silly that adults seem to canonize such ridiculous historic figures as being the epitome of bad-ass. It wasn't too long ago that he was afraid to think of the word "ass," but ever since his parents split, it somehow worked its way into an acceptable vernacular... though some of the faculty at his school don't seem to think so. He called himself the Ass Ninja on the playground one day, and subsequently endured a conversation with the Principal over an inappropriate topic that Harlon knew nothing about. Ah, well... the bliss of childhood.
So now he's just "The Ninja." Use of "The" when addressing him is mandatory.
His mother has fallen asleep at her computer, and he can't resist the target. After all, ninjas have to practice stealth constantly, lest the skill erode from disuse. In any other moment, the slight trail of drool on the left side of his mother's mouth would have made him laugh. This time, though, he's on a mission. Memories of hide and seek and scary stories rush through his young mind. He imagines his mother laughing - something he's not seen in a while - and submitting him to tickle torture.
The gash on his forehead from the now-broken laptop was not what he'd been expecting.
***
The youngest child is Sage, and she's 8. She's also the smart one. Sounds odd, sure, but anyone who has spent time with all of the children come to this conclusion. Not as pretty as Jasmine, though much more girly, her ability to read people is likely what caused ancient man to start believing in ESP. As soon as she was old enough to form an cognitive thought, she knew her mother to be an angry woman. She recognized every smile for a facade and despised the puppy-dog voice when her mother was pretending to be comforting and caring. As a result, Sage didn't let her mother comb her hair or dress her up, either. Those activities were reserved for her aunt.
Sage just stayed out of her mother's way. She did exceedingly well in school, reading at a grade level three above her own, and excelling in the arts. It was during a drawing exercise that her teacher noticed Sage's illustration of her family contained a female monster, tinted in blue. Upon questioning, Sage replied, "That's mom. She hates us."
***
The father is, naturally, oblivious to any of this. Dealing with five children - one had finally left the roost - is more than he can realistically handle. But, he, too, savors the empty victory from the custody arrangement. Still, though one cannot argue that he genuinely loves and enjoys his children, he fails to provide them with a sanitary place to live and healthy meals to eat. Nature and nurture do not peacefully co-exist in the lives of these children.
***
Her mother is less a responsibility and more a reminder of victory, however Pyrrhic. Sage is the smart one, and her education and subsequent career proves this beyond any reasonable doubt. Like a cliché, Jasmine became a stripper, struggling to support two children of her own. As his stereotype, Harlon became a thief and makes his home in a state penitentiary. Sage, though, earned a doctorate in history - her favorite subject - and became a published author. She never married; never had children, choosing instead to concentrate on her work and reside within her own mind... the only safe place she's ever known. Her imagination prolific and adept; surpassed only by her memory.
Such a combination could only lead to tragedy, and it has.
By the time her father died, he needed a cane to walk. At the end of it all, he became an apologetic and sentimental man, evidenced by the names of his eight children - he had remarried - etched in his walking stick. Always his favorite, he gave the cane to Sage, knowing that she would not want or need anything else in his relatively frivolous estate.
The day after the funeral, with dad no longer around to bear witness and be disappointed in her, she beat her mother to death with it.
A final trophy, stored in an evidence bag, forever lost to the world.
***
"Mom, can we play Battleship?" Jasmine asks. She's the eldest child, 11 years old, and a complete tomboy. She's going to be attractive, of this there's no doubt in anybody's mind, but she doesn't let her mother comb her hair or dress her up. It's a secret source of annoyance for the mother.
"I'm watching television. Play in your room and be quiet." One might think there'd be a pang of guilt in such a response, but the doctor is just about to save the life of a wounded paraplegic who looks like the doctor's dead fiancée and, come on now, who wants to miss that?
Jasmine walks away, her frown barely hidden. She pauses during her retreat when she hears her mother stir suddenly, but apparently that is simply the result of a cliffhanger ending eliciting a subdued disappointment at reading "To Be Continued..." on the screen. Jasmine can barely make out the beginning of a Viagra commercial as she closes her bedroom door.
***
Harlon is 10 and plans on being a ninja when he grows up. Or a pirate. Despite his youth, even he finds it silly that adults seem to canonize such ridiculous historic figures as being the epitome of bad-ass. It wasn't too long ago that he was afraid to think of the word "ass," but ever since his parents split, it somehow worked its way into an acceptable vernacular... though some of the faculty at his school don't seem to think so. He called himself the Ass Ninja on the playground one day, and subsequently endured a conversation with the Principal over an inappropriate topic that Harlon knew nothing about. Ah, well... the bliss of childhood.
So now he's just "The Ninja." Use of "The" when addressing him is mandatory.
His mother has fallen asleep at her computer, and he can't resist the target. After all, ninjas have to practice stealth constantly, lest the skill erode from disuse. In any other moment, the slight trail of drool on the left side of his mother's mouth would have made him laugh. This time, though, he's on a mission. Memories of hide and seek and scary stories rush through his young mind. He imagines his mother laughing - something he's not seen in a while - and submitting him to tickle torture.
The gash on his forehead from the now-broken laptop was not what he'd been expecting.
***
The youngest child is Sage, and she's 8. She's also the smart one. Sounds odd, sure, but anyone who has spent time with all of the children come to this conclusion. Not as pretty as Jasmine, though much more girly, her ability to read people is likely what caused ancient man to start believing in ESP. As soon as she was old enough to form an cognitive thought, she knew her mother to be an angry woman. She recognized every smile for a facade and despised the puppy-dog voice when her mother was pretending to be comforting and caring. As a result, Sage didn't let her mother comb her hair or dress her up, either. Those activities were reserved for her aunt.
Sage just stayed out of her mother's way. She did exceedingly well in school, reading at a grade level three above her own, and excelling in the arts. It was during a drawing exercise that her teacher noticed Sage's illustration of her family contained a female monster, tinted in blue. Upon questioning, Sage replied, "That's mom. She hates us."
***
The father is, naturally, oblivious to any of this. Dealing with five children - one had finally left the roost - is more than he can realistically handle. But, he, too, savors the empty victory from the custody arrangement. Still, though one cannot argue that he genuinely loves and enjoys his children, he fails to provide them with a sanitary place to live and healthy meals to eat. Nature and nurture do not peacefully co-exist in the lives of these children.
***
Her mother is less a responsibility and more a reminder of victory, however Pyrrhic. Sage is the smart one, and her education and subsequent career proves this beyond any reasonable doubt. Like a cliché, Jasmine became a stripper, struggling to support two children of her own. As his stereotype, Harlon became a thief and makes his home in a state penitentiary. Sage, though, earned a doctorate in history - her favorite subject - and became a published author. She never married; never had children, choosing instead to concentrate on her work and reside within her own mind... the only safe place she's ever known. Her imagination prolific and adept; surpassed only by her memory.
Such a combination could only lead to tragedy, and it has.
By the time her father died, he needed a cane to walk. At the end of it all, he became an apologetic and sentimental man, evidenced by the names of his eight children - he had remarried - etched in his walking stick. Always his favorite, he gave the cane to Sage, knowing that she would not want or need anything else in his relatively frivolous estate.
The day after the funeral, with dad no longer around to bear witness and be disappointed in her, she beat her mother to death with it.
A final trophy, stored in an evidence bag, forever lost to the world.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Things I Learned from Video Games That My Sister's Kids Didn't
I love video games. I do. Thankfully, I've moved past the point that I waste dozens of hours of week sitting in front of a television or a computer doing something that ultimately results in, well, nothing. But I still love a good video game. Strangely enough (or maybe not), I prefer a strong story to strong gameplay, though I do enjoy a mindless foray into whooping some virtual ass.
That stated, I grew up on the good ol' Atari 2600. Crap graphics combined with a one-button controller never really lent themselves to great gameplay, and the limited RAM and ROM space found on that particular system didn't really lend itself to engaging and encompassing stories. But, whatever.
Fast-forward to the 21st century (actually, the mid-90s), and video games now exhibit mind-blowing imagery and storylines that are so in-depth, they often require multiple run-throughs just to notice or understand all of their nuance. No, I'm not claiming that video games are the next great art form (though I would certainly, unlike Roger Ebert, consider them an art form), I'm merely acknowledging that a shitload of creativity goes into the things.
Still, kids seem to be taking everything for granted these days, and as I'm watching three under-10-year-olds playing a fairly comprehensive game on Nintendo Wii as I write this, it only confirms this notion for me. Video games taught me persistence. I played stupid little 8-bit (or less) games until they were completed. If I couldn't get past a level or an obstacle, I stayed at it until I could figure it out. For me, video games were a primal form (compared to today's games, of course) of problem solving. Movement and timing. But then again, video games were most certainly NOT my childhood's primary form of entertainment. There was television, sure, but it was mostly inanimate toys and books that I had to turn to in order to keep from getting bored.
Today, though... different story.
I'm watching three kids try to beat a level, each getting frustrated beyond belief in turn, and handing the controller off to another kid in angry defeat in order to just pass the level. Their willingness to quit a friggin' video game is, quite simply, amazing to me. What makes it somewhat depressing is that though there are snippets of what is actually a pretty decent story, they don't even give a shit. All they want to see are flashing lights and colors and some "bling bling" that lets them know they've passed the level.
So three strikes for persistence, and three more for following plot.
I also learned how to share with the video games of my generation. There were relatively few simultaneous multiplayer games when I was growing up, and "Player 2" usually went about his or her business while I twiddled my thumbs awaiting my next turn. Not so with today's games. Everything's at the same time, be it on the same team or in versus modes, and the sudden demise of one player typically results in arguments over whether or not to hit the reset button.
On that note, I also learned how to lose with video games. I think we can safely count that lesson out, as evidenced by the almost broken Wii controller now laying on the living room floor and the bratty neighbor kid stewing in the kitchen.
Now, while I don't subscribe to the theory that video games are destroying our children (I blame that on bad parenting, which has pretty much always been the culprit of that particular accusation), I do admit that children learn fewer valuable life lessons from the games and style of gaming in vogue today.
Of course, I'm probably just getting old.
That stated, I grew up on the good ol' Atari 2600. Crap graphics combined with a one-button controller never really lent themselves to great gameplay, and the limited RAM and ROM space found on that particular system didn't really lend itself to engaging and encompassing stories. But, whatever.
Fast-forward to the 21st century (actually, the mid-90s), and video games now exhibit mind-blowing imagery and storylines that are so in-depth, they often require multiple run-throughs just to notice or understand all of their nuance. No, I'm not claiming that video games are the next great art form (though I would certainly, unlike Roger Ebert, consider them an art form), I'm merely acknowledging that a shitload of creativity goes into the things.
Still, kids seem to be taking everything for granted these days, and as I'm watching three under-10-year-olds playing a fairly comprehensive game on Nintendo Wii as I write this, it only confirms this notion for me. Video games taught me persistence. I played stupid little 8-bit (or less) games until they were completed. If I couldn't get past a level or an obstacle, I stayed at it until I could figure it out. For me, video games were a primal form (compared to today's games, of course) of problem solving. Movement and timing. But then again, video games were most certainly NOT my childhood's primary form of entertainment. There was television, sure, but it was mostly inanimate toys and books that I had to turn to in order to keep from getting bored.
Today, though... different story.
I'm watching three kids try to beat a level, each getting frustrated beyond belief in turn, and handing the controller off to another kid in angry defeat in order to just pass the level. Their willingness to quit a friggin' video game is, quite simply, amazing to me. What makes it somewhat depressing is that though there are snippets of what is actually a pretty decent story, they don't even give a shit. All they want to see are flashing lights and colors and some "bling bling" that lets them know they've passed the level.
So three strikes for persistence, and three more for following plot.
I also learned how to share with the video games of my generation. There were relatively few simultaneous multiplayer games when I was growing up, and "Player 2" usually went about his or her business while I twiddled my thumbs awaiting my next turn. Not so with today's games. Everything's at the same time, be it on the same team or in versus modes, and the sudden demise of one player typically results in arguments over whether or not to hit the reset button.
On that note, I also learned how to lose with video games. I think we can safely count that lesson out, as evidenced by the almost broken Wii controller now laying on the living room floor and the bratty neighbor kid stewing in the kitchen.
Now, while I don't subscribe to the theory that video games are destroying our children (I blame that on bad parenting, which has pretty much always been the culprit of that particular accusation), I do admit that children learn fewer valuable life lessons from the games and style of gaming in vogue today.
Of course, I'm probably just getting old.
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