She was old enough to know, but young enough to disappear within her imagination. Her kingdom of calla lilies had to be tended to, after all, regardless of what tragedies took place in the deceptively dull realm of the real world. Ruling alone was an awfully gigantic task, and there were no princes of worth nearby. Some were too ugly; some were too smelly; most were too stupid... and they all had cooties. She had a quest to begin soon, anyway. A journey her uncle told her that could take the rest of her life. There were no worries, however, for she didn't think she'd be away from her calla lilies for too long.
The quest was, perhaps, the kindest thing her uncle had ever given to her. The little girl refused to come to terms with her father's death. Car accidents and heart attacks didn't exist among the callaliliputians (a term her father had coined), so why should they exist for her father? An artist by trade, her uncle had recognized the girl's defense mechanism, and instead of following the suit of modern advice and making her confront the cold facts, he simply played along.
"But where did daddy go?" she asked, frowning, though she wasn't entirely convinced a frown was called for. She was simply imitating the expressions of the adults that were present.
Her uncle sighed, tired from reluctant and public tears, but turned to her with a big smile. "He moved, princess. He went to a different kingdom to rule."
Her eyes widened as big as the muffins she had stolen the week before (but told no one about, not even her sister). "Does he have a castle?" She seemed excited.
"Oh, yes," her uncle replied, "but it's a castle in the sky."
The girl frowned again, but this time with purpose. "How do I get there to see him?"
Her uncle picked her up and propped him on her lap. "Well, it's a very, very hard journey. One such a little girl might not be able to make. It might even take forever."
She crossed her arms, keeping the frown intact. "I'm not that little. I can make it."
"All right, then. First, you have to go to the gardens of stone and find the one with your daddy's name on it. That's his street sign. Understand?"
She nodded.
"Second," he continued, "you have to follow the yellow butterflies. One will lead you to another, and then another. Sometimes the butterflies will disappear and you'll have to look around for a hidden clue."
"Like when the Easter Bunny hides her eggs?" she interrupted.
"Yes, exactly like that." A telephone rang from the next room and her uncle set her down. As he got up to answer, he reminded her, "Follow the yellow butterflies."
"To the castle in the sky!" she exclaimed with a giggle, her frowns now an unimportant memory.
***
It was the tenth anniversary of her father's death, and she was weary of visiting him. Her life was about to take her to the far reaches of the world, and a hint of regret threatened to stain her aspirations before they had a chance to shine.
Remembering a childhood emotion, she glanced around for something, struggling to hold back her tears.
"Please," she said aloud, to no one in particular, "let me know that it's okay to leave you."
Not really expecting an answer, she parked her car and began the short walk to her father's gravesite. It was a beautiful spring day and there was still some moisture in the soil from a gentle rain two days prior. The birds were calling and the sun was warm. Only her mood darkened the beautiful and peaceful landscape.
As she approached the headstone, her eyes grew as large as those muffins she once stole. She fell to her knees and began to cry. Upon her father's marker, basking in the sun and flapping its wings to a song that no one could hear... a yellow butterfly.
Wiping the tears from her cheeks she looked up to the sky, imagining a cloud in the shape of a castle.
Showing posts with label narrative. Show all posts
Showing posts with label narrative. Show all posts
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Before & After
- Before
It was little more than a dream. Well, she was. A hello in passing on the way to somewhere else. There was no intent behind the greeting, only a friendly gesture that should've been lost in time. But that was how he found her. A hello in passing turned into a beautiful smile, a beautiful smile turned into a soft and warm embrace, and a soft and warm embrace revealed a scent that lingered powerfully in memory.
- After
It will be little more than a memory. Despite the time spent together, he won't be sure she had really existed. The hello in passing will fade away into a yearning silence, broken occassionally by the recollection of a voice that may not have been hers. His memory will fail, and he will not recall how he had lost her. He will only know that the embrace was long gone, having mingled its way among sensations of a life filled with other pleasures and other pains. There will be a sudden realization that he is not now who he was yesterday, nor who he will be tomorrow.
- Before
The seriousness of his occupation led him to the conclusion that he was better off alone. Too many moments presented themselves too dangerously to be burdened with the added weight of someone else's thoughts. Still, human desire was ever-present, and the malevolence of loneliness haunted him even in the life of a crowd. Somehow he remained firm, though there were lapses in his solitude which all ended badly. But they ended, at least, and he was strangely grateful for his misfortune.
- After
He will find that a lack of responsibility breeds irresponsibility, and will hold little concern for himself as a result. He will very much want to take care of someone else, and for someone else to care for him, but will no longer harbor the ship and sail with which to do so. His seas will be empty, waves of emotion having been replaced by lakes of glass, brittle in their abandonment. Needs and wants will no longer coalesce, separated by distance and too much time apart. Fear, in the form of a misguided discipline, will chase everything away.
- Now
I watch the seconds tick away, voluntarily oblivious of the shift from past to future. The present happens too quickly to care about, moments and instants caught in between what once mattered and what will matter. Plans come and go - most fail - and I sit there admiring the song in the background. A cigarette dissolves into ash, its embers marking the time when night turns into day. As John and Paul sing their song, I acknowledge them with a smile, remembering her words of wisdom and wondering if she'll ever again stand in front of me. For now, though, I'm content to let it be.
It was little more than a dream. Well, she was. A hello in passing on the way to somewhere else. There was no intent behind the greeting, only a friendly gesture that should've been lost in time. But that was how he found her. A hello in passing turned into a beautiful smile, a beautiful smile turned into a soft and warm embrace, and a soft and warm embrace revealed a scent that lingered powerfully in memory.
- After
It will be little more than a memory. Despite the time spent together, he won't be sure she had really existed. The hello in passing will fade away into a yearning silence, broken occassionally by the recollection of a voice that may not have been hers. His memory will fail, and he will not recall how he had lost her. He will only know that the embrace was long gone, having mingled its way among sensations of a life filled with other pleasures and other pains. There will be a sudden realization that he is not now who he was yesterday, nor who he will be tomorrow.
- Before
The seriousness of his occupation led him to the conclusion that he was better off alone. Too many moments presented themselves too dangerously to be burdened with the added weight of someone else's thoughts. Still, human desire was ever-present, and the malevolence of loneliness haunted him even in the life of a crowd. Somehow he remained firm, though there were lapses in his solitude which all ended badly. But they ended, at least, and he was strangely grateful for his misfortune.
- After
He will find that a lack of responsibility breeds irresponsibility, and will hold little concern for himself as a result. He will very much want to take care of someone else, and for someone else to care for him, but will no longer harbor the ship and sail with which to do so. His seas will be empty, waves of emotion having been replaced by lakes of glass, brittle in their abandonment. Needs and wants will no longer coalesce, separated by distance and too much time apart. Fear, in the form of a misguided discipline, will chase everything away.
- Now
I watch the seconds tick away, voluntarily oblivious of the shift from past to future. The present happens too quickly to care about, moments and instants caught in between what once mattered and what will matter. Plans come and go - most fail - and I sit there admiring the song in the background. A cigarette dissolves into ash, its embers marking the time when night turns into day. As John and Paul sing their song, I acknowledge them with a smile, remembering her words of wisdom and wondering if she'll ever again stand in front of me. For now, though, I'm content to let it be.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Wanderlust
"What are you thinking?"
The question popped him out of his trance. The wide expanse of West Coast sand had hypnotized him the way only a collection of memories and dreams could. The rolling of Pacific waves during high tide reminded him of years wasted in the wrong parts of the world and the crashing water seemed to taunt him for seeking out calmer seas. His mind was born violently quiet, and it seemed that every part of the world knew it. A pity it had taken him so long to come to the same conclusion. Nature is nothing but progress through chaos, and he was trying very hard to live up to its example.
"Nothing," he finally responded. Not entirely untrue was the answer, for he could not recall a single word hidden in his mind. Merely emotion. Thought was sometimes a bane to him, and such a sometime was happening now. He hated having to be pragmatic, to make a decision based on logic and not on desire.
"Then what are you feeling?"
He laughed to himself. For a woman he hadn't known very long, practically speaking, she held a lot of insight into him. Then again, he found himself appreciating the opinions of strangers more and more, often over the opinions of people he'd known for years. There's something refreshing about listening to people who have no vested interest in something they're criticizing. Friends and family, with rare exception, usually try to soften any blow. But not him. He liked it blunt, so he gave it blunt. Made a lot of enemies that way, but he'd argue that his friends were better friends than anyone else ever had. The ones who were still around, anyway.
"Everything."
She smiled, knowing that such a vague response was also the dedicated truth. He smiled, too, at the brief realization that she would recognize his honesty when she heard it. She had no idea what she meant to him. In her mind, she was just a supportive friend who happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. In his, she was both a reason to stay and the motivation to move on. A past and future in a single moment about to be shattered by the requirements of the present.
"I'm in love with this place," he continued. "The now more than the here. But I'm in love with it."
Her smile disappeared, almost imperceptibly turning into a frown. She knew the stories. He wasn't doing what he wanted to do, nor was he living where he wanted to live. Life, as it does to most, interfered so cruelly with his dreams and almost awakened him from them entirely. When she had discovered him - or rather, when he had discovered her - he was a stagnant mess, making mistakes that he had already made. Worse, he had been preparing to make them again, and almost willingly. Complacency had almost killed him and who he wanted to be.
"Maybe you shouldn't fall in love with anything for a while," she said, scolding softly, recognizing that such a course of action would also deprive her of something she may have desired. "You need to keep moving. And forward."
He nodded. He hated being pragmatic. Logic was necessary, but it was boring. Chasing magic was all he really wanted to do.
"Let it go," she said, not entirely convinced that he should. She, too, was aware of her own desire to throw caution to the wind. "It'll be there when you get back."
"But will I?" he asked, in a voice that could not be clearly identified.
She didn't understand the question.
The question popped him out of his trance. The wide expanse of West Coast sand had hypnotized him the way only a collection of memories and dreams could. The rolling of Pacific waves during high tide reminded him of years wasted in the wrong parts of the world and the crashing water seemed to taunt him for seeking out calmer seas. His mind was born violently quiet, and it seemed that every part of the world knew it. A pity it had taken him so long to come to the same conclusion. Nature is nothing but progress through chaos, and he was trying very hard to live up to its example.
"Nothing," he finally responded. Not entirely untrue was the answer, for he could not recall a single word hidden in his mind. Merely emotion. Thought was sometimes a bane to him, and such a sometime was happening now. He hated having to be pragmatic, to make a decision based on logic and not on desire.
"Then what are you feeling?"
He laughed to himself. For a woman he hadn't known very long, practically speaking, she held a lot of insight into him. Then again, he found himself appreciating the opinions of strangers more and more, often over the opinions of people he'd known for years. There's something refreshing about listening to people who have no vested interest in something they're criticizing. Friends and family, with rare exception, usually try to soften any blow. But not him. He liked it blunt, so he gave it blunt. Made a lot of enemies that way, but he'd argue that his friends were better friends than anyone else ever had. The ones who were still around, anyway.
"Everything."
She smiled, knowing that such a vague response was also the dedicated truth. He smiled, too, at the brief realization that she would recognize his honesty when she heard it. She had no idea what she meant to him. In her mind, she was just a supportive friend who happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. In his, she was both a reason to stay and the motivation to move on. A past and future in a single moment about to be shattered by the requirements of the present.
"I'm in love with this place," he continued. "The now more than the here. But I'm in love with it."
Her smile disappeared, almost imperceptibly turning into a frown. She knew the stories. He wasn't doing what he wanted to do, nor was he living where he wanted to live. Life, as it does to most, interfered so cruelly with his dreams and almost awakened him from them entirely. When she had discovered him - or rather, when he had discovered her - he was a stagnant mess, making mistakes that he had already made. Worse, he had been preparing to make them again, and almost willingly. Complacency had almost killed him and who he wanted to be.
"Maybe you shouldn't fall in love with anything for a while," she said, scolding softly, recognizing that such a course of action would also deprive her of something she may have desired. "You need to keep moving. And forward."
He nodded. He hated being pragmatic. Logic was necessary, but it was boring. Chasing magic was all he really wanted to do.
"Let it go," she said, not entirely convinced that he should. She, too, was aware of her own desire to throw caution to the wind. "It'll be there when you get back."
"But will I?" he asked, in a voice that could not be clearly identified.
She didn't understand the question.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Linger
A foot falls, then another. Timed to the breathing of approaching surprise. Ambient sound creates shadows in which to safely exhale. The gentle beating of a ceiling fan whips the air, further inhibiting the long-obsolesced ability to feel movement. Her silhouette, perfectly curved in the dark, tunes itself to the music of this silent dance. A foot falls... then another.
Hands reach around her body and one rests above her heart. Beats skip between a sudden inhalation, then gradually relax. The smell of temporary fear escapes her neck and is tasted. She attempts to turn, but the embrace holds firm and she closes her eyes in the dark. A free hand feels its way and lifts too many folds of a dress. The spider feels its prey struggle in its web, vibrations eliciting a sensation akin to hunger. Thumb and forefinger intrude cloth seams and revel for a moment in enveloping moisture. Beats skip... then relax.
Bodies dance to a song of breath and gasp, almost in unison, but one a half-beat behind the other. Hands rest above the hips of a lover, still hidden beneath her dress. A delicate push followed by gentle pull. She smiles as she tenses, hearing a heartbeat behind her and feeling it between her. Slowly, she adds a sway to the tango. Vertigo replaces balance as movement becomes an exercise in chaotic futility. Delicate push... gentle pull.
Spasms replace vertigo and there's a final pull accompanied by two final gasps. More beats skip, then relax. A foot falls, then another. By the time she turns around and opens her eyes, she's alone again... a silhouette in love with a rhythm of far away.
Hands reach around her body and one rests above her heart. Beats skip between a sudden inhalation, then gradually relax. The smell of temporary fear escapes her neck and is tasted. She attempts to turn, but the embrace holds firm and she closes her eyes in the dark. A free hand feels its way and lifts too many folds of a dress. The spider feels its prey struggle in its web, vibrations eliciting a sensation akin to hunger. Thumb and forefinger intrude cloth seams and revel for a moment in enveloping moisture. Beats skip... then relax.
Bodies dance to a song of breath and gasp, almost in unison, but one a half-beat behind the other. Hands rest above the hips of a lover, still hidden beneath her dress. A delicate push followed by gentle pull. She smiles as she tenses, hearing a heartbeat behind her and feeling it between her. Slowly, she adds a sway to the tango. Vertigo replaces balance as movement becomes an exercise in chaotic futility. Delicate push... gentle pull.
Spasms replace vertigo and there's a final pull accompanied by two final gasps. More beats skip, then relax. A foot falls, then another. By the time she turns around and opens her eyes, she's alone again... a silhouette in love with a rhythm of far away.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
A River in Epirus
Her kiss was sweet in a way that it has never been before. The man smiles at the woman and gently places his thumb on her chin.
"Will you miss me?" she asks.
"I always miss you."
Behind them a limousine pulls up, for the man was a wealthy man and his payrolls control much of the city. No driver exits, but the passenger door opens anyway. This shocks the woman and she peers into the compartment, but sees no shape nor movement. The man takes no notice. He smiles again and she returns it, hesitantly. He can tell that something is wrong, but she's just a throwaway, and her emotions concern him not. He enters the vehicle without so much as a wave goodbye.
The limousine pulls away and the privacy barrier lowers slowly. As the man tastes his lips, there's hint of something obscure on them, he realizes that he does not recognize the driver.
"Where's Smith?
The driver turns and winks, he looks friendly enough. "He's sick today, sir. There's something going around. How are you feeling?"
The man ignores the question, but notices his forehead burning up. He turns on the air conditioning in the compartment and shakes his head in the cool air. The driver smiles widely at him. The man hits the button to raise the barrier, but nothing happens.
"Driver," he says, "raise the barrier, if you don't mind."
"I do, actually," the driver responds, continuing to smile but returning attention to the road.
There's an attempt at rebuke, but something catches the man's throat and he loosens his tie.
"What does your wife think of your trysts, sir? She can't possibly approve."
Grunting, the man forces his voice to work. "None of your fucking business, puke. Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you know who I am?"
"Yes, sir." A mocking nod accompanies the driver's words. "But you do not know who I am."
"Whoever you are, you're an insignificant fool. I'll have your job."
"Oh, I doubt that. My job has been the same since before you were born."
A closer examination of the driver reveals the face of a man who could not be older than 35 years of age. The man takes a deep breath, noticing for the first time that he can smell whatever it is that he's been tasting.
The driver laughs. "Sure, the medium has changed, as has the mode. But I still go back and forth to the same place, carrying poor saps like you."
"Poor saps?" The man is barely able to speak. He glances in a vanity mirror: his skin is deep red and clammy.
"Yes. Many men who have crossed the river did so because of poison. You are not the first, nor will you be the last."
River? Poison? That fucking bitch! Did the harlot know he was going to leave her like he did all the rest? The man glances through watering eyes at the driver, who shakes his head as if reading the man's mind.
"Your wife left this for you."
The driver hands the man an envelope. There's something heavy inside. Through struggled breath and clenched teeth, the man opens it. It's a coin. One unlike he's ever seen.
"What is it?" asks the man.
"Just an old piece of silver," responds the driver, not turning his head.
"I see that, you fuck. What's it for?" Left arm heavies and breath continues to labor.
"Your mouth."
"What?"
"Put it in your mouth." The driver turns this time. His eyes no longer human, reminiscent of fire; smile demonic. "It's my fare."
"Will you miss me?" she asks.
"I always miss you."
Behind them a limousine pulls up, for the man was a wealthy man and his payrolls control much of the city. No driver exits, but the passenger door opens anyway. This shocks the woman and she peers into the compartment, but sees no shape nor movement. The man takes no notice. He smiles again and she returns it, hesitantly. He can tell that something is wrong, but she's just a throwaway, and her emotions concern him not. He enters the vehicle without so much as a wave goodbye.
The limousine pulls away and the privacy barrier lowers slowly. As the man tastes his lips, there's hint of something obscure on them, he realizes that he does not recognize the driver.
"Where's Smith?
The driver turns and winks, he looks friendly enough. "He's sick today, sir. There's something going around. How are you feeling?"
The man ignores the question, but notices his forehead burning up. He turns on the air conditioning in the compartment and shakes his head in the cool air. The driver smiles widely at him. The man hits the button to raise the barrier, but nothing happens.
"Driver," he says, "raise the barrier, if you don't mind."
"I do, actually," the driver responds, continuing to smile but returning attention to the road.
There's an attempt at rebuke, but something catches the man's throat and he loosens his tie.
"What does your wife think of your trysts, sir? She can't possibly approve."
Grunting, the man forces his voice to work. "None of your fucking business, puke. Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you know who I am?"
"Yes, sir." A mocking nod accompanies the driver's words. "But you do not know who I am."
"Whoever you are, you're an insignificant fool. I'll have your job."
"Oh, I doubt that. My job has been the same since before you were born."
A closer examination of the driver reveals the face of a man who could not be older than 35 years of age. The man takes a deep breath, noticing for the first time that he can smell whatever it is that he's been tasting.
The driver laughs. "Sure, the medium has changed, as has the mode. But I still go back and forth to the same place, carrying poor saps like you."
"Poor saps?" The man is barely able to speak. He glances in a vanity mirror: his skin is deep red and clammy.
"Yes. Many men who have crossed the river did so because of poison. You are not the first, nor will you be the last."
River? Poison? That fucking bitch! Did the harlot know he was going to leave her like he did all the rest? The man glances through watering eyes at the driver, who shakes his head as if reading the man's mind.
"Your wife left this for you."
The driver hands the man an envelope. There's something heavy inside. Through struggled breath and clenched teeth, the man opens it. It's a coin. One unlike he's ever seen.
"What is it?" asks the man.
"Just an old piece of silver," responds the driver, not turning his head.
"I see that, you fuck. What's it for?" Left arm heavies and breath continues to labor.
"Your mouth."
"What?"
"Put it in your mouth." The driver turns this time. His eyes no longer human, reminiscent of fire; smile demonic. "It's my fare."
Monday, August 17, 2009
Incredible Journeys Home
The Appalachians just west of Asheville are already getting get cold. There is no risk of snow just yet, but the autumn chills are settling in and familiar aches returning. Weather isn't the only reason for the aches, of course, as the memory of a tired and hungry body's journey from the Atlantic coast is still fresh in bones and muscles. It has taken five weeks to get this far, and a desire to return to a Californian mountain lake once called home ensures that aches and pains will be endured for another few months. If, that is, a body no longer conditioned can remember younger days long enough to make it.
A month ago, everything was lost. Career, money, life... everything. So a journey was begun. A dying truck on its last miles sold to ensure food, at least, could be had. As companions, loyal dogs would remain beside, hunting their own meals and occasionally sharing the unlucky squirrel or rabbit. The two smaller dogs, a pointer-mix and a beagle-mix, would often range together, but always pick up their master's scent and return. The German Shepherd, true in camaraderie, would never roam too far away.
An old Army backpack was packed with what clothes, soap, and toothpaste could be carried. There was a cell phone, of course, but one no longer paid for and soon to be inactive. Most unusually, a cat carrier containing two cats, a gray-white and a dark mackerel-tabby the sole remnants of a family once numbering ten or more. A hard journey made more difficult by a stubborn reluctance to part with what were considered children.
Naturally, the cats had to be let out of their cage to relieve themselves and to eat, but never without a gentle hand holding tightly to neck or back. Initially the cats found themselves at odds with such an arrangement, but they learned to accept it eventually. Still, they continued to despise it, unaware of the great care taken to prevent their getting lost so far from any home they've ever known. A great care taken despite the great burden.
But their master is not invincible, and a feeble attempt at staying warm in the Appalachian forest serves pitiful proof of this. Exhausted, no forward progress had been made in days. A decision is made to let the cats roam around, hoping they would somehow recognize their temporary abode. At first, the cats are weary of leaving the safety, if confinement, of their cage. Soon, however, playful dogs and the sounds of an open wilderness provide the motivation to set foot on strange land.
A tired smile. Pairs of cat eyes make contact with human. An unspoken trust providing some comfort where none is to be had.
"Don't go too far," a voice cracks. Less for the words and more for the sound remembered from happier days and telephone conversations from the next room. "Don't go too far."
The cats cautiously prowl around, under both the watchful eyes of an adopted parent and the curious eyes of canine cousins. Toys reveal themselves as leaves fluttering in the wind, insects hiding under decaying bark, and the rare evidence of previous encampments. Slowly, but surely, the playground continues to grow, all the while the melody of "don't go too far" plays in the background.
But the Autumn chills are increasing, and strength has to be preserved. Human eyes close, and a voice quiets into a slumber. Dogs, sensing the need for warmth, huddle close. But the cats continue to play, further and farther away. Further and farther away, until the instinct that home lies somewhere to the East overwhelms the knowledge that such place was no longer home.
In the morning, hours of calling, and perhaps a few tears shed, ultimately give way to a westward journey continued.
And an empty cage remains in the mountains west of Asheville.
A month ago, everything was lost. Career, money, life... everything. So a journey was begun. A dying truck on its last miles sold to ensure food, at least, could be had. As companions, loyal dogs would remain beside, hunting their own meals and occasionally sharing the unlucky squirrel or rabbit. The two smaller dogs, a pointer-mix and a beagle-mix, would often range together, but always pick up their master's scent and return. The German Shepherd, true in camaraderie, would never roam too far away.
An old Army backpack was packed with what clothes, soap, and toothpaste could be carried. There was a cell phone, of course, but one no longer paid for and soon to be inactive. Most unusually, a cat carrier containing two cats, a gray-white and a dark mackerel-tabby the sole remnants of a family once numbering ten or more. A hard journey made more difficult by a stubborn reluctance to part with what were considered children.
Naturally, the cats had to be let out of their cage to relieve themselves and to eat, but never without a gentle hand holding tightly to neck or back. Initially the cats found themselves at odds with such an arrangement, but they learned to accept it eventually. Still, they continued to despise it, unaware of the great care taken to prevent their getting lost so far from any home they've ever known. A great care taken despite the great burden.
But their master is not invincible, and a feeble attempt at staying warm in the Appalachian forest serves pitiful proof of this. Exhausted, no forward progress had been made in days. A decision is made to let the cats roam around, hoping they would somehow recognize their temporary abode. At first, the cats are weary of leaving the safety, if confinement, of their cage. Soon, however, playful dogs and the sounds of an open wilderness provide the motivation to set foot on strange land.
A tired smile. Pairs of cat eyes make contact with human. An unspoken trust providing some comfort where none is to be had.
"Don't go too far," a voice cracks. Less for the words and more for the sound remembered from happier days and telephone conversations from the next room. "Don't go too far."
The cats cautiously prowl around, under both the watchful eyes of an adopted parent and the curious eyes of canine cousins. Toys reveal themselves as leaves fluttering in the wind, insects hiding under decaying bark, and the rare evidence of previous encampments. Slowly, but surely, the playground continues to grow, all the while the melody of "don't go too far" plays in the background.
But the Autumn chills are increasing, and strength has to be preserved. Human eyes close, and a voice quiets into a slumber. Dogs, sensing the need for warmth, huddle close. But the cats continue to play, further and farther away. Further and farther away, until the instinct that home lies somewhere to the East overwhelms the knowledge that such place was no longer home.
In the morning, hours of calling, and perhaps a few tears shed, ultimately give way to a westward journey continued.
And an empty cage remains in the mountains west of Asheville.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
North Countries
To the young, the death of youth seems a cause to celebrate. In the summer between graduation and whatever happens next, there's an endless festival of singing and dancing away adolescent inhibitions. A wait begins for the freedom of adulthood that will never come, ultimately replaced by the recognition that the death of youth is cause to mourn.
For one, there is another wait, but of this he is unaware. He remembers its beginning, a day secured in memory. Winds from northern California, turning into gusts off the Sierra Nevadas, swept through her hair. Blonde reflection in the lights of the biggest little city in the world seemed an overwhelming image in carnival mirror. A friend's cruel intention prevented further encounter, but subconscious wiser than he etched her face in thoughtful watercolor and safely kept it from fading in the sun.
Gusts continuing their course pushed him to a life as a soldier. North Carolina winds became faithful companion to young paratrooper and carried him safely to the ground on many occasions. Though she would often occur to him, immaturity spared him painful reflection and granted an absence of yearning. A curious safety net for an occupation in which thought is an enemy of balance and instinct, the tightrope. The circus of life had provided an unusual, merciful respite.
A gentle westerly blew him further East, as far as East as it could take him. And not once, but twice. In a realization of unhappiness, he hastily fought against the currents and returned to the place he thought was home, but found only enemy hearts and broken dreams. Ever loyal winds soon carried him back to the Atlantic, where a wait lasting over a decade abruptly came to an end. Blonde reflection in the lights of experienced eyes, nostalgia and euphoria in elegant jamboree.
Still, there are few happy endings in life, and thanks to the errant timing of hurricane, his wait will begin anew. This time he will not be spared the yearning, but it no longer matters. He knows now that he's spent his entire life waiting for something, and now that he finally knows that the object of his patience exists, he'll gladly wait once more. He's peripherally aware that he'll never see her again, but he'll wait. If necessary, all the way until his funeral.
For now, he will sing and dance away fearful inhibitions. And dream of the girl of north country fair.
For one, there is another wait, but of this he is unaware. He remembers its beginning, a day secured in memory. Winds from northern California, turning into gusts off the Sierra Nevadas, swept through her hair. Blonde reflection in the lights of the biggest little city in the world seemed an overwhelming image in carnival mirror. A friend's cruel intention prevented further encounter, but subconscious wiser than he etched her face in thoughtful watercolor and safely kept it from fading in the sun.
Gusts continuing their course pushed him to a life as a soldier. North Carolina winds became faithful companion to young paratrooper and carried him safely to the ground on many occasions. Though she would often occur to him, immaturity spared him painful reflection and granted an absence of yearning. A curious safety net for an occupation in which thought is an enemy of balance and instinct, the tightrope. The circus of life had provided an unusual, merciful respite.
A gentle westerly blew him further East, as far as East as it could take him. And not once, but twice. In a realization of unhappiness, he hastily fought against the currents and returned to the place he thought was home, but found only enemy hearts and broken dreams. Ever loyal winds soon carried him back to the Atlantic, where a wait lasting over a decade abruptly came to an end. Blonde reflection in the lights of experienced eyes, nostalgia and euphoria in elegant jamboree.
Still, there are few happy endings in life, and thanks to the errant timing of hurricane, his wait will begin anew. This time he will not be spared the yearning, but it no longer matters. He knows now that he's spent his entire life waiting for something, and now that he finally knows that the object of his patience exists, he'll gladly wait once more. He's peripherally aware that he'll never see her again, but he'll wait. If necessary, all the way until his funeral.
For now, he will sing and dance away fearful inhibitions. And dream of the girl of north country fair.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Borne
It's never the ones you suspect, particularly in this game. Decades of Hollywood influence, leading everyone to believe in a false archetype. But the muscle-bound action stars are rare out here, notably absent in the presence of reluctant endurance runners. The young and deceptively terrified whose equipment often outweighs themselves. They're here for whatever reason, or no reason at all. Still, they're here.
That one, he's a former gang-banger who couldn't bear to look at a mother who could no longer bear to look at him. Another, a college dropout who couldn't afford to raise two children with his high school sweetheart. That group over there, raised by parents so poor, dinner sometimes had to be shared. The tall one? His brother killed the year prior, and a misguided taste of revenge lingered too long on his tongue. The short one followed in his father's footsteps... one last chance at making a neglectful parent somehow proud. And then there's the aimless, struggling for a sense of direction in a world unwilling to point the way.
They don't give a shit which one leans to the left, to the right, or who even gives a shit at all. So-and-so listens to bad music, what's-his-name watches too much porn, homeboy's so stupid he can't count to ten on his fingers. Rich kid drives a Porsche to work, poor kid stays in his room on the weekends. The ass-kisser just got another promotion. Is anybody surprised? The quiet professional just does his job, and doesn't care if anybody notices. But people do.
Fights are common, and cohesion only truly exists when there's a common enemy staring them in the face. Bar room brawls unify, the wives of others segregate. Nobody asks these kids what they want to do; they're told what they want to do, and they do it. Even if they don't like it. Some will leave soon, in search of greener pastures and bluer skies. Some will stay, the result of an overwhelming sense of home. Others stay because they have nowhere else to go, unwanted or unneeded in the world beyond.
They're all terrified. Some stare at the floor, only peripherally aware of their hand holding a static line. The bolder ones exchange glances and guarded smiles with each other, pretending the pain in their shoulders from clumsy parachutes isn't really pain. Those raised by religious pray. Some atheists do, too. Covering your ass means covering all your bases. The mathematical minds calculate their cumulative odds of dying and the flippant just want it over with so they can finally take a shit. The most fearful secretly hope that the aircraft doors malfunction or the weather gets too bad for the mission to proceed further.
Burdened with heavy weapons and other equipment, they all think they know how they got here, but none of them really do. They all hate each other, really, but in this game, there's no one else to play with. Cowards all, but able to shut off fear completely for a brief moment as their feet touch the sky. Afterward, realizations will hit that going to college or working for dad isn't such a bad proposition. Or perhaps they'll finally know that they were, in fact, meant to fly.
Who are they? Nobody all that important, I guess.
Just boys chasing the wind.
That one, he's a former gang-banger who couldn't bear to look at a mother who could no longer bear to look at him. Another, a college dropout who couldn't afford to raise two children with his high school sweetheart. That group over there, raised by parents so poor, dinner sometimes had to be shared. The tall one? His brother killed the year prior, and a misguided taste of revenge lingered too long on his tongue. The short one followed in his father's footsteps... one last chance at making a neglectful parent somehow proud. And then there's the aimless, struggling for a sense of direction in a world unwilling to point the way.
They don't give a shit which one leans to the left, to the right, or who even gives a shit at all. So-and-so listens to bad music, what's-his-name watches too much porn, homeboy's so stupid he can't count to ten on his fingers. Rich kid drives a Porsche to work, poor kid stays in his room on the weekends. The ass-kisser just got another promotion. Is anybody surprised? The quiet professional just does his job, and doesn't care if anybody notices. But people do.
Fights are common, and cohesion only truly exists when there's a common enemy staring them in the face. Bar room brawls unify, the wives of others segregate. Nobody asks these kids what they want to do; they're told what they want to do, and they do it. Even if they don't like it. Some will leave soon, in search of greener pastures and bluer skies. Some will stay, the result of an overwhelming sense of home. Others stay because they have nowhere else to go, unwanted or unneeded in the world beyond.
They're all terrified. Some stare at the floor, only peripherally aware of their hand holding a static line. The bolder ones exchange glances and guarded smiles with each other, pretending the pain in their shoulders from clumsy parachutes isn't really pain. Those raised by religious pray. Some atheists do, too. Covering your ass means covering all your bases. The mathematical minds calculate their cumulative odds of dying and the flippant just want it over with so they can finally take a shit. The most fearful secretly hope that the aircraft doors malfunction or the weather gets too bad for the mission to proceed further.
Burdened with heavy weapons and other equipment, they all think they know how they got here, but none of them really do. They all hate each other, really, but in this game, there's no one else to play with. Cowards all, but able to shut off fear completely for a brief moment as their feet touch the sky. Afterward, realizations will hit that going to college or working for dad isn't such a bad proposition. Or perhaps they'll finally know that they were, in fact, meant to fly.
Who are they? Nobody all that important, I guess.
Just boys chasing the wind.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
A Kiss by Extension
His hands move slowly, aware of her heightened sensitivities. Lips place themselves against lips, resistant at first, but gradually relaxing. There's a hint that he's tasting her, though she's not quite ready to return the sensation. A tongue rolls gently in circular motion, offering subdued exhilaration in its attempt to encourage. He wants more, but she's unsure.
Her breath is erratic and a gasp further elicits his arousal. She wants time to inhale, exhale, but he will not give it to her. Hands begin to wander, aimlessly, but with determined purpose. Her back arches and her body stretches out... he enjoys the scent of hair as oxygen is temporarily displaced by lust.
This could be a dream, but it's very real. He briefly considers a gentle bite, but decides against it. Complete trust has yet to be earned. She moans as his lips make a promise to return. Her emotions are raw before him, and he wants to see them. Another moan signals an impatience, and he keeps his promise.
He caresses the length of her legs and becomes subtly aware of feet curling in ecstasy. She quivers. The thought occurs to him that her strong thighs, warm as they are against his neck, could easily kill him. But such a threat is hardly enough to stop the kiss.
When she can take no more, he glides across her torso and whispers something that makes her smile. Sliding into one, she's finally ready. His mouth is familiar, but the taste is different. His lips tastes of woman, of herself, a burning confusion fueled by the fade from paramour into lover.
Her breath is erratic and a gasp further elicits his arousal. She wants time to inhale, exhale, but he will not give it to her. Hands begin to wander, aimlessly, but with determined purpose. Her back arches and her body stretches out... he enjoys the scent of hair as oxygen is temporarily displaced by lust.
This could be a dream, but it's very real. He briefly considers a gentle bite, but decides against it. Complete trust has yet to be earned. She moans as his lips make a promise to return. Her emotions are raw before him, and he wants to see them. Another moan signals an impatience, and he keeps his promise.
He caresses the length of her legs and becomes subtly aware of feet curling in ecstasy. She quivers. The thought occurs to him that her strong thighs, warm as they are against his neck, could easily kill him. But such a threat is hardly enough to stop the kiss.
When she can take no more, he glides across her torso and whispers something that makes her smile. Sliding into one, she's finally ready. His mouth is familiar, but the taste is different. His lips tastes of woman, of herself, a burning confusion fueled by the fade from paramour into lover.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Push
There's both a shy and aggressive nervousness in fumbling around in the dark. Lips struggle to stay locked together as two bodies sway clumsily around the room, as if separation might signal the end to it all. A subtle scent of alcohol mixes with faded perfume and cologne and only adds to the vertigo. The edge of a bed strikes the back of knees in silk stockings, and the free fall begins.
Her face glows in the dark, blue-white silhouette beneath an intent so longing and sinister. A turn of her head shifts hair and exposes the sensitive skin of her neck. Caution thrown to the wind as a well-placed kiss elicits both a gasp and a simper. There's chaos in every movement of hand and finger, though shadows make it appear choreographed.
An overpowering instant of lust tears apart her blouse, and an errant button is heard impacting the floor. Dexterity quickly learned results in the rest of her clothing falling to the bedside. A pause. Curves in ambient light burn in memory an image of forever. She inhales every time she's touched, her eyes closed, yet seeing everything. Subtle smiles at the corners of her mouth help light the way.
She radiates a seductive warmth, causing nervousness to slowly give way to confidence. Minuscule beads of sweat pretend to rain. Hands slide from hip to waist, confirming what the eyes do not quite believe. Woman. Beauty. Ecstasy. A forced patience almost collapses under perceived weightlessness. Resolve prevails, however, and every inch is explored before the free fall continues.
Her skin is smooth and played as a piano. Fingers traverse its length, tones shifting from left to right, top to bottom. Dance and music deceptively combined in lustful art, soft colors in all the right places. In the center of it all, another pause. A childish abandon overwhelms as a belly's button is tasted and teased. Another smile succeeds in extending the teasing, but fails to prevent the touch and taste of something so personal.
It was only a matter of time. There's one more button left as bodies finally align, and she very much wants it pushed.
Her face glows in the dark, blue-white silhouette beneath an intent so longing and sinister. A turn of her head shifts hair and exposes the sensitive skin of her neck. Caution thrown to the wind as a well-placed kiss elicits both a gasp and a simper. There's chaos in every movement of hand and finger, though shadows make it appear choreographed.
An overpowering instant of lust tears apart her blouse, and an errant button is heard impacting the floor. Dexterity quickly learned results in the rest of her clothing falling to the bedside. A pause. Curves in ambient light burn in memory an image of forever. She inhales every time she's touched, her eyes closed, yet seeing everything. Subtle smiles at the corners of her mouth help light the way.
She radiates a seductive warmth, causing nervousness to slowly give way to confidence. Minuscule beads of sweat pretend to rain. Hands slide from hip to waist, confirming what the eyes do not quite believe. Woman. Beauty. Ecstasy. A forced patience almost collapses under perceived weightlessness. Resolve prevails, however, and every inch is explored before the free fall continues.
Her skin is smooth and played as a piano. Fingers traverse its length, tones shifting from left to right, top to bottom. Dance and music deceptively combined in lustful art, soft colors in all the right places. In the center of it all, another pause. A childish abandon overwhelms as a belly's button is tasted and teased. Another smile succeeds in extending the teasing, but fails to prevent the touch and taste of something so personal.
It was only a matter of time. There's one more button left as bodies finally align, and she very much wants it pushed.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Awaycoming
It'd been a long time. His hands ran smoothly across her body as if it were yesterday. They were lines deadly, sexy, and dangerously seductive. She glistened in the dark as she always had, and there was still that twinkle in her eyes, revealing a shared perspective of the world that only those so intimate are ever lucky enough to experience.
His grip was confident, loose, and fingers gently caressed all the right curves. Curves so familiar, they could be seen with eyes closed and felt with hands numb. Her smell hadn't changed, years of caretaking ensured a scent arousing and deceptively young. It's said that aroma is best at triggering memory, and it's true. Years apart erased by deep inhalation and a euphoric realization of what can be accomplished together.
He remembered her voice, even before he heard her speak. Self-aware, comforting, and deliberate in what is said, a voice so soothing, even the most panicked of moods could be calmed by the tone of her song... or scream. Consistent perfection, always reassuring. Her ability to attract attention equaled only by her ability to push it away.
Her body so compact, yet so strong, he often thought of writing a letter to those responsible for her existence. As loyal a companion to him as she had been, he couldn't believe that he had once decided to leave her. Driving off into the sunset never seemed a larger mistake. She had been his confidence, his confidante, and they had been inseparable. Apart, life had fallen apart, and surely her absence had been the reason.
None of that mattered now, for they were finally reunited. Invincible in each other's presence, they were one and the same, hopefully for years to come. He had taken the long way home, realizing late that home was purely a matter of heart and not of location.
It was time; the dance was to begin. Homecoming king and homecoming queen share a kiss for luck. Her bolt locked to the rear, a magazine is slammed into her receiver. He rides her bolt forward and a round slides into her chamber, anticipating a trigger squeeze. Beyond a caress so lethal, the dance floor awaits.
He'll point the way, she'll clear it. Together again.
His grip was confident, loose, and fingers gently caressed all the right curves. Curves so familiar, they could be seen with eyes closed and felt with hands numb. Her smell hadn't changed, years of caretaking ensured a scent arousing and deceptively young. It's said that aroma is best at triggering memory, and it's true. Years apart erased by deep inhalation and a euphoric realization of what can be accomplished together.
He remembered her voice, even before he heard her speak. Self-aware, comforting, and deliberate in what is said, a voice so soothing, even the most panicked of moods could be calmed by the tone of her song... or scream. Consistent perfection, always reassuring. Her ability to attract attention equaled only by her ability to push it away.
Her body so compact, yet so strong, he often thought of writing a letter to those responsible for her existence. As loyal a companion to him as she had been, he couldn't believe that he had once decided to leave her. Driving off into the sunset never seemed a larger mistake. She had been his confidence, his confidante, and they had been inseparable. Apart, life had fallen apart, and surely her absence had been the reason.
None of that mattered now, for they were finally reunited. Invincible in each other's presence, they were one and the same, hopefully for years to come. He had taken the long way home, realizing late that home was purely a matter of heart and not of location.
It was time; the dance was to begin. Homecoming king and homecoming queen share a kiss for luck. Her bolt locked to the rear, a magazine is slammed into her receiver. He rides her bolt forward and a round slides into her chamber, anticipating a trigger squeeze. Beyond a caress so lethal, the dance floor awaits.
He'll point the way, she'll clear it. Together again.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Walk a Mile...
The dead tell no stories, but possessions left behind do. Photographs on the wall or in frames on the desk. Pictures are worth a thousand words, they say, but too often the awareness of a camera forces an image worth a thousand lies and the memories they depict are false. Possibly the intent, but likely not. Nobody asks anyone to walk a mile in their image.
Letters and journals tell more truth, but the author's ability to capture a moment leaves most to the imagination. A reader's subjective lies in lieu of a writer's subjective truths, strangers running with words they can only interpret using experiences from their own lives. The journey from birth to death lost in translation. It's easy to walk a mile in someone's words, but it is often not the same mile.
By the bed, a set of slippers. They, too, tell a story, of feet afraid of a cold or dirty floor. Watermarks reveal they were worn to the shower and back. An errant hair betrays a cat or a dog, not always allowed on the bed, curled up to sleep on the scent of a master's feet. A disdain of filth combined with an irrational love of animals.
Well-worn dress shoes near the front door. Matched with clothes found in a wardrobe, a tale told of one who cared enough to dress to impress. A salesperson or a manager. Hints of white collar abound, secrets whispered of a lifetime spent taking care of family. And younger days prowling expensive restaurants and bars for the one with which to start a family with. Perhaps the one in the photographs.
In the closet, stuffed diligently in the bottom of a duffel bag, a pair of ragged boots. A brush of black polish speaks of days long gone when a reflection could be seen in the toes. Sand from deserts and jungles, clues of days when friends were friends and enemies were enemies. A sense of duty lost in footprints made on other continents. Or just a need to do something different, something few were willing to do. Hidden for reasons unknown. Embarrassment from deeds better left unremembered, or maybe tears from memories of friends long buried.
Running shoes still in a box. Recognition of a life gone frail and an attempt too late to extend waning years. Or nearby broken-in cross-trainers, perchance, simply offered more comfort and familiarity. There are sandals worn on trips to the beach. Bronzed baby shoes a gift from a mother long departed. Clogs and sabos, souvenirs from travels abroad. Loafers for days when arthritis was too much to handle. And, most telling at all, plastic hospital shoes worn during a battle with life destined to be ultimately lost.
Stories never told, only walked. Forgotten stories of too many miles traveled before a much needed sleep, earned every step of the way.
Letters and journals tell more truth, but the author's ability to capture a moment leaves most to the imagination. A reader's subjective lies in lieu of a writer's subjective truths, strangers running with words they can only interpret using experiences from their own lives. The journey from birth to death lost in translation. It's easy to walk a mile in someone's words, but it is often not the same mile.
By the bed, a set of slippers. They, too, tell a story, of feet afraid of a cold or dirty floor. Watermarks reveal they were worn to the shower and back. An errant hair betrays a cat or a dog, not always allowed on the bed, curled up to sleep on the scent of a master's feet. A disdain of filth combined with an irrational love of animals.
Well-worn dress shoes near the front door. Matched with clothes found in a wardrobe, a tale told of one who cared enough to dress to impress. A salesperson or a manager. Hints of white collar abound, secrets whispered of a lifetime spent taking care of family. And younger days prowling expensive restaurants and bars for the one with which to start a family with. Perhaps the one in the photographs.
In the closet, stuffed diligently in the bottom of a duffel bag, a pair of ragged boots. A brush of black polish speaks of days long gone when a reflection could be seen in the toes. Sand from deserts and jungles, clues of days when friends were friends and enemies were enemies. A sense of duty lost in footprints made on other continents. Or just a need to do something different, something few were willing to do. Hidden for reasons unknown. Embarrassment from deeds better left unremembered, or maybe tears from memories of friends long buried.
Running shoes still in a box. Recognition of a life gone frail and an attempt too late to extend waning years. Or nearby broken-in cross-trainers, perchance, simply offered more comfort and familiarity. There are sandals worn on trips to the beach. Bronzed baby shoes a gift from a mother long departed. Clogs and sabos, souvenirs from travels abroad. Loafers for days when arthritis was too much to handle. And, most telling at all, plastic hospital shoes worn during a battle with life destined to be ultimately lost.
Stories never told, only walked. Forgotten stories of too many miles traveled before a much needed sleep, earned every step of the way.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Procrastination: Adventures Before a Deadline
There's work to be done this week, and a lot of it. Two critical analyses are due for publication. So, for the first time in recent history, I'm in bed at a good time. Sure, there are a few out there who probably think that 1 AM is not a good time, but they're all pansies who don't watch Craig Ferguson's monologue. Seriously, he's hilarious and worth the sleep deprivation, even if he is Scottish.
Anyway... so, there I was, listlessly sleeping the night away right up until I had a dream that I died in a car accident. I'm not kidding, either. The impact was slow motion and it hurt like Hell. I even woke up in pain. Not that any of this has anything to do with procrastination.
Hang on... a buddy just logged into IM.
Okay, where was I? Oh, yeah, bad dream. Maybe it does have something to do with procrastination, since I'm not well-rested. I did wind up going right back to sleep after waking up at 7:30 this morning. Because, you know, 577 pages need to be read and 4000 words need to be written by Friday. Or is it Thursday? My procrastinating, it seems, has even bled over to reading the fucking contract. Oh, shit... I forgot to watch True Blood and Entourage last night. Be right back.
So... wait, I'm thirsty.
Luckily, I'm a fast reader. There are plenty faster than I am, but I did manage to read an 1100-page trilogy in a day once upon a time, and knocked out Black Hawk Down on a plane ride from SFO to Incheon airport in South Korea. Or maybe it was Gimpo airport, I can't remember. Let me Google it.
Google? Or Bing? I hate the word "bing." It's lame. "Google" isn't much better, but whatever.
Oh, yeah... not sure what airport it was. Who was in Black Hawk Down? The movie, I mean. Josh Hartnett, right? Somebody once said I looked like him. I think somebody's full of it.
These books are sitting here on my desk, just waiting to be cracked open. I read one of them a long time ago... 9th grade, I think. English class. Yeesh... I'm getting old. I've also seen both of the movies made from the two books, but I'm not sure that's going to help much. 2001: A Space Odyssey and The Last Picture Show. In Arthur C. Clarke's book, the ship winds up near Saturn, if I recall, but Stanley Kubrick was getting bored, so he cut it down to Jupiter for the movie version.
I should really get back to work. Need food, though. Off to the store!
Toilet paper? Check. Lean cuisine? Check. Dog food, cat food? Check. Ah, crap... forgot nicotine gum.
So, one of these books is from 1966 and the other is from 1968. At least Larry McMurtry is my favorite author, and it's probably my oversight that I haven't read The Last Picture Show already. Probably? Um, yeah... definitely.
Damn. I'm all out of excuses. Guess I should clean the kitchen.
Anyway... so, there I was, listlessly sleeping the night away right up until I had a dream that I died in a car accident. I'm not kidding, either. The impact was slow motion and it hurt like Hell. I even woke up in pain. Not that any of this has anything to do with procrastination.
Hang on... a buddy just logged into IM.
Okay, where was I? Oh, yeah, bad dream. Maybe it does have something to do with procrastination, since I'm not well-rested. I did wind up going right back to sleep after waking up at 7:30 this morning. Because, you know, 577 pages need to be read and 4000 words need to be written by Friday. Or is it Thursday? My procrastinating, it seems, has even bled over to reading the fucking contract. Oh, shit... I forgot to watch True Blood and Entourage last night. Be right back.
So... wait, I'm thirsty.
Luckily, I'm a fast reader. There are plenty faster than I am, but I did manage to read an 1100-page trilogy in a day once upon a time, and knocked out Black Hawk Down on a plane ride from SFO to Incheon airport in South Korea. Or maybe it was Gimpo airport, I can't remember. Let me Google it.
Google? Or Bing? I hate the word "bing." It's lame. "Google" isn't much better, but whatever.
Oh, yeah... not sure what airport it was. Who was in Black Hawk Down? The movie, I mean. Josh Hartnett, right? Somebody once said I looked like him. I think somebody's full of it.
These books are sitting here on my desk, just waiting to be cracked open. I read one of them a long time ago... 9th grade, I think. English class. Yeesh... I'm getting old. I've also seen both of the movies made from the two books, but I'm not sure that's going to help much. 2001: A Space Odyssey and The Last Picture Show. In Arthur C. Clarke's book, the ship winds up near Saturn, if I recall, but Stanley Kubrick was getting bored, so he cut it down to Jupiter for the movie version.
I should really get back to work. Need food, though. Off to the store!
Toilet paper? Check. Lean cuisine? Check. Dog food, cat food? Check. Ah, crap... forgot nicotine gum.
So, one of these books is from 1966 and the other is from 1968. At least Larry McMurtry is my favorite author, and it's probably my oversight that I haven't read The Last Picture Show already. Probably? Um, yeah... definitely.
Damn. I'm all out of excuses. Guess I should clean the kitchen.
Monday, July 20, 2009
The Whale and the Albatross
It's empty out here, but there's air to breathe closer to the surface. Silence is relative, the gentle breeze and the crest of wave so familiar they make no noticeable sound. Cloud and island are all that break the landscape of blue deserts. A setting sun and its reflection point the way home and to a much needed rest. Tomorrow, sunrise will begin the chase again. That nothing is running away doesn't matter, keeping up with the currents does.
Short life and quick journey or long life and slow journey, carried by what should be hands. Tails tell the story of wind and water, and are told which way to go. There are no maps required in travels so simple. Survival the only instinct and the only choice. Elsewhere, a small world continues to grow ever smaller; here, at least, its enormity remains a comfortable companion. Aviary and aquarium infinite, exploration in its purest form.
The moon is absent tonight, so open eyes are not required. It's dark, but the water and the air are still warm. The sea and the sky melt together; the horizon waiting to be found. Swim or fly. Your choice.
Short life and quick journey or long life and slow journey, carried by what should be hands. Tails tell the story of wind and water, and are told which way to go. There are no maps required in travels so simple. Survival the only instinct and the only choice. Elsewhere, a small world continues to grow ever smaller; here, at least, its enormity remains a comfortable companion. Aviary and aquarium infinite, exploration in its purest form.
The moon is absent tonight, so open eyes are not required. It's dark, but the water and the air are still warm. The sea and the sky melt together; the horizon waiting to be found. Swim or fly. Your choice.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
The Forever Night
Loneliness bears down on a soul, whether there's a belief in souls or not. The feeling of immortality transcends even the simplest of human minds, but not everybody wants to live forever. And of those who do, most do not wish to be alone. How painful a thought... perhaps to die without a hand to hold, or without that one last kiss.
Knowing that one is a monster makes it difficult to foster a relationship, but even the most evil tend to find someone to fall back on when legs become too tired to stand. Love is not an emotion reserved for the good of heart. There is no black and white in feeling, only sensation. And each has a right to it.
It's been years since first meeting, a brief encounter beginning long absences separated by brief encounters. The revelation that absence often happens when in the same room was a dishearteningly valuable lesson to learn. How else do priorities objectively fall into place? Subjective existence is fraudulent, though potentially blissful. Still, it's better not to live in lies. There's no point to the sun if there's no enjoyment in sunlight.
The parallels are striking, maybe even deceptively so, but it's undeniable that they are there. Paths crossing too randomly to be random, both in choice of careers and of travels. Complicated minds succumbing to simple inclinations to believe in fateful pattern. Nature's patterns used to justify those beliefs... day and night, asleep and awake, death and life. Experience and education are powerless in the face of raw emotion.
A vision of loveliness, sitting awake in the dark. Both eyes open, out of fear as well as a strange anticipation of something new. A subtle appreciation of life overshadowed by an inexplicable desire for something else. Death is becoming, but only from an acceptance of things for what they are.
Silent steps from behind exposed shoulders. A smile sinister, yet longing. It will take time to come to terms with what's to happen, but the pain of involuntary solitude is too much. Shadow leans into neck, fangs bared. The unconventional embrace of punctured skin, the letting and drinking of blood, ensures companionship until the end of time.
Even if she hates him for it.
Knowing that one is a monster makes it difficult to foster a relationship, but even the most evil tend to find someone to fall back on when legs become too tired to stand. Love is not an emotion reserved for the good of heart. There is no black and white in feeling, only sensation. And each has a right to it.
It's been years since first meeting, a brief encounter beginning long absences separated by brief encounters. The revelation that absence often happens when in the same room was a dishearteningly valuable lesson to learn. How else do priorities objectively fall into place? Subjective existence is fraudulent, though potentially blissful. Still, it's better not to live in lies. There's no point to the sun if there's no enjoyment in sunlight.
The parallels are striking, maybe even deceptively so, but it's undeniable that they are there. Paths crossing too randomly to be random, both in choice of careers and of travels. Complicated minds succumbing to simple inclinations to believe in fateful pattern. Nature's patterns used to justify those beliefs... day and night, asleep and awake, death and life. Experience and education are powerless in the face of raw emotion.
A vision of loveliness, sitting awake in the dark. Both eyes open, out of fear as well as a strange anticipation of something new. A subtle appreciation of life overshadowed by an inexplicable desire for something else. Death is becoming, but only from an acceptance of things for what they are.
Silent steps from behind exposed shoulders. A smile sinister, yet longing. It will take time to come to terms with what's to happen, but the pain of involuntary solitude is too much. Shadow leans into neck, fangs bared. The unconventional embrace of punctured skin, the letting and drinking of blood, ensures companionship until the end of time.
Even if she hates him for it.
Friday, June 26, 2009
The Beholders
Hollywood gets it wrong when movies talk about itchy trigger fingers. Of course, how would they know? An industry populated by writers whose research methods consist almost entirely of peripheral methods. Peripheral as in: ask someone... the first person who even remotely answers like they know what they're talking about, well, that's what gets run with.
Anyone who does know knows that it's not the trigger finger that gets itchy; it's the thumb on the safety. The trigger finger's too stupid to know when it's itchy or not. It just knows it's married to the trigger and pulls whenever it feels like it, itch be damned. But the thumb, that's the extension of the hand that needs to think. In order words, the trigger finger's just the cock, reacting to pornographic input the thumb has to sift through. If and when to blow a wad is the key to survival out here.
What a strange thing to be thinking of when riding in the driver's side rear seat of a stripped-down Army Humvee. A deadly joyride through the middle of a seemingly alien desert valley in the wrong part of the world. In front, a driver's white-knuckles signal a nervousness from traversing this rather dangerous place one too many times. To the driver's right, a vehicle commander's floating head betrays a concerted attempt to try not to let fear put him to sleep.
Funny, that. How soldiers can turn fear into a stimulus to hit the sack. Then again, soldiers can turn anything into a stimulus to hit the sack. Next to sex, sleep has always been a soldier's best friend. But not today; not now.
A quick tap to the driver's left shoulder; the driver notices the vehicle commander and purposefully swerves the steering wheel. The violence of the Humvee attempting to change direction shakes the vehicle commander awake. The VC looks at the driver, nods a cursory thank you, then returns a weary gaze to the landscape.
The thought occurs that there's no place on Earth that isn't beautiful. Even here, where the constant reminder of dust and sand pelting the face serve an ironic counterpoint to the serenity of snow-capped mountains seen in the distance. A false serenity, naturally, as the snows of those mountains are too often stained with blood. For whatever reason, there's no sight as shocking as bright red arterial spray littering a carpet of white snow.
Hollywood, however, loves the image. After all, it provides such a beautiful contrast of colors for people to gaze in awe at. A small, lovely pattern hidden in the ugly tapestry of war, or so the self-professed artists of the industry would have their audiences believe.
That's another thing Hollywood gets wrong. Through the flash of a rocket-propelled grenade fired from behind a rock formation, the perceived slowing of time, the itch of a thumb as it decides to let a finger seduce a trigger, and the screams of panic and defiance of friends as they prepare to discover if they'll ever see snow up close again... Hollywood gets it wrong.
War is beautiful.
Anyone who does know knows that it's not the trigger finger that gets itchy; it's the thumb on the safety. The trigger finger's too stupid to know when it's itchy or not. It just knows it's married to the trigger and pulls whenever it feels like it, itch be damned. But the thumb, that's the extension of the hand that needs to think. In order words, the trigger finger's just the cock, reacting to pornographic input the thumb has to sift through. If and when to blow a wad is the key to survival out here.
What a strange thing to be thinking of when riding in the driver's side rear seat of a stripped-down Army Humvee. A deadly joyride through the middle of a seemingly alien desert valley in the wrong part of the world. In front, a driver's white-knuckles signal a nervousness from traversing this rather dangerous place one too many times. To the driver's right, a vehicle commander's floating head betrays a concerted attempt to try not to let fear put him to sleep.
Funny, that. How soldiers can turn fear into a stimulus to hit the sack. Then again, soldiers can turn anything into a stimulus to hit the sack. Next to sex, sleep has always been a soldier's best friend. But not today; not now.
A quick tap to the driver's left shoulder; the driver notices the vehicle commander and purposefully swerves the steering wheel. The violence of the Humvee attempting to change direction shakes the vehicle commander awake. The VC looks at the driver, nods a cursory thank you, then returns a weary gaze to the landscape.
The thought occurs that there's no place on Earth that isn't beautiful. Even here, where the constant reminder of dust and sand pelting the face serve an ironic counterpoint to the serenity of snow-capped mountains seen in the distance. A false serenity, naturally, as the snows of those mountains are too often stained with blood. For whatever reason, there's no sight as shocking as bright red arterial spray littering a carpet of white snow.
Hollywood, however, loves the image. After all, it provides such a beautiful contrast of colors for people to gaze in awe at. A small, lovely pattern hidden in the ugly tapestry of war, or so the self-professed artists of the industry would have their audiences believe.
That's another thing Hollywood gets wrong. Through the flash of a rocket-propelled grenade fired from behind a rock formation, the perceived slowing of time, the itch of a thumb as it decides to let a finger seduce a trigger, and the screams of panic and defiance of friends as they prepare to discover if they'll ever see snow up close again... Hollywood gets it wrong.
War is beautiful.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Beauty is in the Eye
Wipe the lens dry; there must be a cracked seal somewhere, because the image keeps fogging up. It's a difficult deficiency to spot during equipment checks, so there's no blame to be placed, save on the procurement of new gear. Still, it's not too humid here, and there's plenty of time to spot her smile and watch her move in the distance. That smile, of course, wouldn't be quite so wide if she knew she was being followed, but such is the nature of the game.
The boss likes to call them models. And, in a way, they are. Certainly they're unwitting and unwilling subjects, but the visual reference is a clean one. A paycheck's got to be earned, after all. This gig is no worse than any other that requires swallowing a semblance of any amount of pride. Still, it bothers the conscience once in a while. That nagging Jiminy Cricket giving a little whistle while a wooden nose gets just a bit longer after a girlfriend asks just exactly where those paychecks come from.
That's not the hardest part, though. The hardest part are the clients. Those sleazy sons and daughters of bitches who demand results before results are even possibly attainable. There's nothing to be done, naturally, and everyone involved knows it. The only people that need to be pissed off less than the boss are the clients. Given the chance, those bastards would eat their children if it got them what they wanted.
Adjust the magnification a bit; she's moving away. Still well within range, but there's no point in risking her disappearing behind a tree and ruining the picture-perfect opportunity. Enjoy her beauty for a bit. There's a sadness involved with knowing that she'll forever remain an enemy, any possibility of love torn away thanks to slanderous words and public perception. Perhaps she'd offer some forgiveness if she knew she had been shielded from such a wicked world for so long. Then again, she probably wouldn't care. There's a price to be paid for exposure, and she surely must have known that before setting off down her life's path.
Check the time; there's a deadline to be met. Thankfully, she's sitting down, waiting for an assistant to bring her something to drink. She could've gotten a drink for herself, but there's that reputation to maintain. Someone needs to tell these people that it's okay to do things for themselves. It certainly would help foster a more generous opinion among followers. But, that's how those who confuse power with being spoiled generally act. Vanity is a powerful drug. It's the reason what's about to happen is about to happen.
She gets her drink. Double-check the position. Everything's good, bystanders haven't noticed anything out of the ordinary. The wind blows through her hair, and there's another realization of how beautiful she really is. This is going to be money.
Hold breath. Click. Close the eye. Click. She's ready for her moment... a moment that will be captured for eternity. Fame incarnate. What a wonderful picture.
Squeeze the trigger.
Don't wait for the photographers to show up.
The boss likes to call them models. And, in a way, they are. Certainly they're unwitting and unwilling subjects, but the visual reference is a clean one. A paycheck's got to be earned, after all. This gig is no worse than any other that requires swallowing a semblance of any amount of pride. Still, it bothers the conscience once in a while. That nagging Jiminy Cricket giving a little whistle while a wooden nose gets just a bit longer after a girlfriend asks just exactly where those paychecks come from.
That's not the hardest part, though. The hardest part are the clients. Those sleazy sons and daughters of bitches who demand results before results are even possibly attainable. There's nothing to be done, naturally, and everyone involved knows it. The only people that need to be pissed off less than the boss are the clients. Given the chance, those bastards would eat their children if it got them what they wanted.
Adjust the magnification a bit; she's moving away. Still well within range, but there's no point in risking her disappearing behind a tree and ruining the picture-perfect opportunity. Enjoy her beauty for a bit. There's a sadness involved with knowing that she'll forever remain an enemy, any possibility of love torn away thanks to slanderous words and public perception. Perhaps she'd offer some forgiveness if she knew she had been shielded from such a wicked world for so long. Then again, she probably wouldn't care. There's a price to be paid for exposure, and she surely must have known that before setting off down her life's path.
Check the time; there's a deadline to be met. Thankfully, she's sitting down, waiting for an assistant to bring her something to drink. She could've gotten a drink for herself, but there's that reputation to maintain. Someone needs to tell these people that it's okay to do things for themselves. It certainly would help foster a more generous opinion among followers. But, that's how those who confuse power with being spoiled generally act. Vanity is a powerful drug. It's the reason what's about to happen is about to happen.
She gets her drink. Double-check the position. Everything's good, bystanders haven't noticed anything out of the ordinary. The wind blows through her hair, and there's another realization of how beautiful she really is. This is going to be money.
Hold breath. Click. Close the eye. Click. She's ready for her moment... a moment that will be captured for eternity. Fame incarnate. What a wonderful picture.
Squeeze the trigger.
Don't wait for the photographers to show up.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Motion
Tell me one more time and I might believe it. I might, maybe, perhaps, except that I already know it's a lie. I've always known it was a lie, and until recently, I didn't care. Some part of me hoped that you'd stretch the truth so far, the truth itself would snap out of it. Belief is a powerful emotion weakened only by the proof of absence. Only the foolhardy accept the absence of proof and call it Faith. Logical thought is left behind as you try to outrun your own emotion, telling yourself that keeping your body moving will somehow keep your mind still, failing to realize that thought requires neither legs nor placidity. The world is moving faster than you ever will, and will move longer than you can possibly be remembered.
Tell me one more time and I will believe it. Not because I think it to be true, but because I simply want to believe it. The sky is green, the Earth is the center of the universe, and taxes can be avoided. We think, therefore we are is a load of shit. How can thought predict itself? It can't. If it could, we would walk in circles forever, chasing tails that were shed long before we could formulate an opinion in our heads. Then again, you like to run in circles, so maybe the joke's on me. If finishing where you began is really what you want to do, then by all means, get back in your car and drive home. Something tells me that yielding the right of way isn't in your nature; you'd rather force a collision.
Tell me another fairy tale so I can sleep better tonight. Tell me you miss me.
Tell me one more time and I will believe it. Not because I think it to be true, but because I simply want to believe it. The sky is green, the Earth is the center of the universe, and taxes can be avoided. We think, therefore we are is a load of shit. How can thought predict itself? It can't. If it could, we would walk in circles forever, chasing tails that were shed long before we could formulate an opinion in our heads. Then again, you like to run in circles, so maybe the joke's on me. If finishing where you began is really what you want to do, then by all means, get back in your car and drive home. Something tells me that yielding the right of way isn't in your nature; you'd rather force a collision.
Tell me another fairy tale so I can sleep better tonight. Tell me you miss me.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Falling Through Life Like Sky Through Rainbow
You remember what it feels like. The moment of realization that made all the preceding moments of frustration worth it. It works, and now you know why. You now have the choice to stand on your own two feet and make your own decisions. The person holding your hand is no longer a necessity, even though she's nice to have around. There's nobody telling you a god or gods exist... you understand and comprehend things for what they are. It's a brilliant feeling, reveling in your own subjective brilliance. Like a sky through a rainbow. Nothing's really there, but you can see it anyway.
Life is a lie. You learn that while living it. Children being told things by adults who don't really know; adults saying things out of fear of admitting they have no idea. The curtain is pulled back, and you don't know whether to laugh or scream at what's behind it. A speech from an empty podium. You'd applaud, but know that there's no point... the rest of the audience won't agree on what was spoken; they'll just fight over what they heard.
Absolute power corrupts absolutely, or so God said. The powerless, then, cannot be corrupted, until revolution brings them into power. Knowing something is not knowledge. That your friends suffer propaganda is a depressing thought, and should be. Some actually like to be stupid, and most actually prefer to be ignorant. It keeps them at the top of their own little forests. Reality brings them too close to the ground, where the rest of us are, and simple minds can't handle too many trees. The GPS won't tell them which trunk to turn left at.
A penny for your thoughts isn't worth the price of admission. Why seek truth when your imagination has already pieced it together? The dictionary is full of lies. No words have concrete meanings. Virtue is meaningless; at least sin can be touched. Having no direction isn't necessarily being lost, though being lost is a prerequisite for finding your way. Leave the compass at home... falling only happens in one direction, anyway.
Remember what it feels like.
Life is a lie. You learn that while living it. Children being told things by adults who don't really know; adults saying things out of fear of admitting they have no idea. The curtain is pulled back, and you don't know whether to laugh or scream at what's behind it. A speech from an empty podium. You'd applaud, but know that there's no point... the rest of the audience won't agree on what was spoken; they'll just fight over what they heard.
Absolute power corrupts absolutely, or so God said. The powerless, then, cannot be corrupted, until revolution brings them into power. Knowing something is not knowledge. That your friends suffer propaganda is a depressing thought, and should be. Some actually like to be stupid, and most actually prefer to be ignorant. It keeps them at the top of their own little forests. Reality brings them too close to the ground, where the rest of us are, and simple minds can't handle too many trees. The GPS won't tell them which trunk to turn left at.
A penny for your thoughts isn't worth the price of admission. Why seek truth when your imagination has already pieced it together? The dictionary is full of lies. No words have concrete meanings. Virtue is meaningless; at least sin can be touched. Having no direction isn't necessarily being lost, though being lost is a prerequisite for finding your way. Leave the compass at home... falling only happens in one direction, anyway.
Remember what it feels like.
The King of the World
The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen.
She was, for better or worse, the largest part of my life since November of 2002. Not straight through, mind you, for there were plenty of hiccups, breakups, and throw ups in the span of time from then until now. Tumultuous does not begin to describe our relationship. Tumultuous might just describe a typical Wednesday, never mind the other six days of the week. She wasn't the type of person to let someone completely into her life, and I was the type of person who wanted to know everything. Needless to say, we were star-crossed from the start.
I can't remember exactly when I proposed to her, but it was fairly early in 2003. It was one of those cute proposals that young and dumb people like to do. I had shown her a candy ring, then made her close her eyes and slipped on the real one. The candy ring was less than a dollar... I can't remember how much I paid for the real ring, though she recently informed me that she had it appraised for almost $8,000. I guess she thought it was fake and had to be sure.
She was always testing me to see if I were real or fake, and I guess I must've failed her so-called tests most of the time. She was into such silly games when we were first got together. She even had a set of those "things you can never do to me" rules... there were five of them, and I had broken all of them within the first six months. At least I think so... I can't really remember what any of the rules were, save for "don't ever call me a bitch." And I wouldn't have, but she often was, and I like to call things as I see them.
Like I said... star-crossed from the start. She believes in Jesus and the Bible. I don't. Not even a little. She thinks Scarlet O'Hara defines a woman coming of age. I see Scarlet O'Hara as a brat getting worse. And Scarlet is obviously where she learned her philosophy of who owes who what in life. Which is, to say, she owes nobody anything, despite the fact that everything she has is due to the generosity of others.
I've been a complete and utter piece of shit during our relationship. Can't lie. I should've been arrested dozens of times. I've ripped clothes off of her, I've destroyed her furniture, I've kicked out the windows of her car. Of course, I did a fair bit of damage to my own property, as well. And she's certainly not guilt-free in that department. I seem to recall a hammer flying through the kitchen door's window, but maybe I'm mistaken. One thing's for sure... we were as destructive as anything the Earth has ever seen. Just ask our unborn child.
Star-crossed, remember?
Yes, there were a few attempts to be with other women along the way. She always suspected as much, but she never successfully pointed out who the culprits were. In fact, she still believes in a handful of women that I've never even been interested in. And there's the little fact she likes to omit when she tells these stories that we were always technically broken up at those times. But, whatever... I'm not the one who married someone else in order to teach the other a lesson.
Don't blink... you read that right.
At any rate, I tried to make it work. In October of 2008, I suddenly felt the same inexplicable euphoria over her that I had felt for her when we first met. Naturally, she refused to believe me... I guess by then it was "too little, too late," which explains her marriage to someone else in January of 2009, even before her mother died. And, oddly, the month of my birthday. I didn't learn about the marriage until April 3, by which point she and I had wound up having sex every weekend. I should've known something was going on. But it took kicking the guy's ass in a Mexican restaurant and a cop showing up to discover the truth. The queen was, indisputably, a born liar. Married, apparently, to another born liar (this particular schmuck walks around telling people he was in Delta Force).
There's more to this story, but I'm currently tiring of telling it. Almost as tired as I am of living it. Perhaps I'll finish it over a beer in some lonely bar in the future. If you're interested, look me up... I should be easy to find. After all, I'm the King of the World.
She was, for better or worse, the largest part of my life since November of 2002. Not straight through, mind you, for there were plenty of hiccups, breakups, and throw ups in the span of time from then until now. Tumultuous does not begin to describe our relationship. Tumultuous might just describe a typical Wednesday, never mind the other six days of the week. She wasn't the type of person to let someone completely into her life, and I was the type of person who wanted to know everything. Needless to say, we were star-crossed from the start.
I can't remember exactly when I proposed to her, but it was fairly early in 2003. It was one of those cute proposals that young and dumb people like to do. I had shown her a candy ring, then made her close her eyes and slipped on the real one. The candy ring was less than a dollar... I can't remember how much I paid for the real ring, though she recently informed me that she had it appraised for almost $8,000. I guess she thought it was fake and had to be sure.
She was always testing me to see if I were real or fake, and I guess I must've failed her so-called tests most of the time. She was into such silly games when we were first got together. She even had a set of those "things you can never do to me" rules... there were five of them, and I had broken all of them within the first six months. At least I think so... I can't really remember what any of the rules were, save for "don't ever call me a bitch." And I wouldn't have, but she often was, and I like to call things as I see them.
Like I said... star-crossed from the start. She believes in Jesus and the Bible. I don't. Not even a little. She thinks Scarlet O'Hara defines a woman coming of age. I see Scarlet O'Hara as a brat getting worse. And Scarlet is obviously where she learned her philosophy of who owes who what in life. Which is, to say, she owes nobody anything, despite the fact that everything she has is due to the generosity of others.
I've been a complete and utter piece of shit during our relationship. Can't lie. I should've been arrested dozens of times. I've ripped clothes off of her, I've destroyed her furniture, I've kicked out the windows of her car. Of course, I did a fair bit of damage to my own property, as well. And she's certainly not guilt-free in that department. I seem to recall a hammer flying through the kitchen door's window, but maybe I'm mistaken. One thing's for sure... we were as destructive as anything the Earth has ever seen. Just ask our unborn child.
Star-crossed, remember?
Yes, there were a few attempts to be with other women along the way. She always suspected as much, but she never successfully pointed out who the culprits were. In fact, she still believes in a handful of women that I've never even been interested in. And there's the little fact she likes to omit when she tells these stories that we were always technically broken up at those times. But, whatever... I'm not the one who married someone else in order to teach the other a lesson.
Don't blink... you read that right.
At any rate, I tried to make it work. In October of 2008, I suddenly felt the same inexplicable euphoria over her that I had felt for her when we first met. Naturally, she refused to believe me... I guess by then it was "too little, too late," which explains her marriage to someone else in January of 2009, even before her mother died. And, oddly, the month of my birthday. I didn't learn about the marriage until April 3, by which point she and I had wound up having sex every weekend. I should've known something was going on. But it took kicking the guy's ass in a Mexican restaurant and a cop showing up to discover the truth. The queen was, indisputably, a born liar. Married, apparently, to another born liar (this particular schmuck walks around telling people he was in Delta Force).
There's more to this story, but I'm currently tiring of telling it. Almost as tired as I am of living it. Perhaps I'll finish it over a beer in some lonely bar in the future. If you're interested, look me up... I should be easy to find. After all, I'm the King of the World.
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