Dreaming
I awoke to the sound of
dissolving walls--
ceiling surrendering to sky.
Seeing the stars,
I foolishly fought to touch them;
realizing
(too late)
they are closer to me
than you ever were.
PHASE TWO BEGINS
16 years ago
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Monday, August 4, 2008
Post Modern Romeo and Juliet
“For never was a story of more woe than this…”
She was reading from the Bible when she met her boyfriend Michael. Sitting with her best girlfriends, Misty, Tru and Viv, Tasia glanced up as he swaggered into the Christian Youth Center, looking lethal in his tight, white Tee, baggy denim jeans and hair down to there. Michael was the given name of the young girls dream and parent’s nightmare. If flags were raised and alarms sounded, as well they should have been, she was deliriously oblivious, obscured as they were by phalange flailings and the peals of giggles from her chorus of classmates. The little lamb, ripe for slaughter, willed him to take notice, and in doing so, did bid forth her own demise.
In the flesh and fresh out of reform school, probation papers still poking out his back pocket, Michael played it all cool and cocky. Like hunter seeking prey, he strutted, sniffed the air and assessed the room with his buddy Paulie. But when he spied her sitting on the bleachers on the far side of the gymnasium, so coy, forestalling inhibition, t’was Michael who became the quarry. It was at that exact moment that their peril was set in motion.
He turned to his chum, impetuously certain though helplessly smitten, and pointed her out. “Did my heart love ‘til now? Can I believe my own eyes? I never saw true beauty until I looked at her”. Paulie merely shrugged and tugged at his Dickies.
Like the tide, moved as it is by an envious moon, Michael was drawn to Tasia, pulled by her. Insanely hopeful, madly enrapt, he approached. She closed the Book in her lap with a snap to silence her glee club associates and offered a most inviting smile. Magnetic. Electric. Kinetic.
It might have continued on like that had she not broken the silence first. “Hey.” She said. “Hey.” He replied. Her chorus sniggered. “I’m Tasia.” Hypnotized and paralyzed, he closed his eyes. “Michael” he rasped. Another peal of giggles brought him back around again. “Tonight there’ll be a party over at my cousin Artie’s. I’ll pick you up at seven.” As Paulie dragged him away, Tasia thought she had died and gone to Heaven.
Later that very night, from opposite ends of town two households quite unalike in dignity, young lovers unwittingly prepared for their precarious destiny. The pastor’s daughter living in a ranch style house on a tree lined cul de sac and the beautician’s boy living in a mud and stucco hovel near the railway track, primped and posed in front of their respective bedroom mirrors. One sat primly, brushing out her hair. One hundred strokes, no more, no less. Her gaze transfixed by her own image while a Crystals’ song played in her head. The other stood shirtless and lean, bulging and flexing to strike imposing reflections. He was James Cagney, Public Enemy Number One, brandishing imaginary guns and a lethal snarl. “You’ll never take me alive, Coppers”, he mugged.
Oh so much time spent in front of their looking glasses. It only begs the question; forsooth, to whom were fortune’s fools, these lovers two, whom were they most enamored with? You reader, know the truth. It was they themselves enchanted them most. If the swain and his beloved both lived another 50 years times 50 years or perhaps 20 years or 2 years even, he likely wouldn’t remember her name and all that she would recall of her time with him would be embarrassment and shame. But for tonight, they were heady with carnal longing and expectation. Their love was mythic, epic, classic. Their desire would not be denied.
Michael was as good as his word, albeit late. But when he arrived at her door at half past seven to pick up his date, her father was not impressed. The Misfits t-shirt, eyebrow piercing and fleshy odor all offended. He refused to let the boy see his daughter. The door closed in his face, sent away, dejected. Michael thought that this was entirely unexpected.
When she discovered what her Daddy had done, the girl heart-broken and miserable ran through the house screaming, “You have no right! You don’t even know him! I hate you!” and threw herself on her bed, crying inconsolably.
“That one is trouble”, he said to his wife as he watched the hoodlum backing down the street. “No good can come of this”. Perhaps, it might be argued, he was too harsh, too quick to judge. Unlikely though. He was her father, her king and sire. He wanted only to protect his little princess. And he also knew a truth about that boy; that he was like all boys of an age. Having been a boy once himself, he understood that young men’s lurid urges were ungovernable. “My child is yet a stranger in the world” and he meant to keep it that way. He shouted back down the hallway that it was all for her own good. A door slammed. Just as likely, the father’s denial was as much for his own peace of mind.
Divine decree be damned, Michael would not so easily be deprived. To reach her by phone he tried and tried, only to be answered with, “She can’t come to the phone” and “don’t call here again!” and SLAM! His own mother, stinking of peroxide and Lambrusco, said, “Forget about that girl, she’s too good for you anyway and have you been taking your pills?” Still he believed that what must be shall be. So he opted for a different play.
Under shadowy cloak of night, he risked all to tap at her window. Rising from her bed, ethereal and waiflike, Tasia went to him. “You shouldn’t be here, it isn’t safe”, she warned. “This will be your place of death if my father finds you at my sill”. But Michael was not afraid, emboldened as he was by his desire. He would rather die than fail in it. He begged her out. She did not hesitate.
They slipped away together into the midnight murk. Under star-crossed skies, they professed sensual desires, their true love grown to excess. And they bemoaned their lot, cursing both their houses with plague. “We can never go back”, she warned. “They’ll never let us be together.”
“I dreamed a dream”, he told her. “A portent that you and I, we two alone, must make our escape together or die trying.” In haste, they agreed. It was decided. That very night, tonight, they would run. The plan they made was a desperate one.
Is love a tender thing? No. Love is amoral. You know this. Love is a violent, frantic and overwhelming force. And violent delights have violent ends. When her father discovered the empty bed and empty garage, he put his fist through a wall and vowed that he would catch those kids and the hooligan would pay. “I’m gonna kill that little SOB!” he shrieked as he dialed the police number.
The open road tempted them, called to them and coaxed them on, while The Animals blared on the radio of her father’s stolen truck. Just one last stop at the 7-Eleven for supplies before they hit out North on highway 87 to begin their time without end. “Get me a box of Chicklets, and a Cherry Coke Big Gulp, oh and a pack of Lucky’s”, she asked as she put a tongue in his ear. He smiled his big toothy smile and said, “Keep the engine running, Baby”
He was only gone a minute, back in a flash, and ready to roll. But first, one last embrace. They were too tangled in each other to notice the arrival of five Black & Whites. When they finally tore themselves apart and looked up, Michael and Tasia found themselves surrounded by an assembly of officers with guns drawn. “Step out of the vehicle with your hands up” Time stopped. A murder of crows overhead froze in mid-flight. The cashier in the convenience store held his breath and ducked behind the counter. The air, sweet with orange blossoms, became still. Michael turned to Tasia. She looked back at him. They communicated their compact and their commitment through words implied but unspoken. If all else fails, they knew that they still had the power to die. He revved the engine and slipped the vehicle into gear.
* * * * * *
Red and White lights strobe on the cab of the Toyota Land Cruiser. It was a private tomb inside which they lay in their eternal embrace, no warmth, no breath. Parting smoke and dust reveal two, mortally wounded from the bullet barrage, the hail of gunfire. Blood pools with motor oil on the asphalt beneath the truck. Behind yellow tape, an Action5 newscaster in her tight blue blazer checks the shot. The silvery haired reporter, always first on the scene, ever comfortable with tragedy and giddy at the scent of death, shoves her microphone in the face of the grieving parents to pose her question; “Who’s to blame in this tragedy, the police, Ritalin, popular media or video games?”
While there could be no agreement on fault, everyone granted that Officer Bellow’s MP5 submachine gun use was excessive. “They were good kids,” wept the girl’s father. “They didn’t deserve this”. A wreath was placed at the scene, memorial to young love, between the ice machine and the video vending booth.
She was reading from the Bible when she met her boyfriend Michael. Sitting with her best girlfriends, Misty, Tru and Viv, Tasia glanced up as he swaggered into the Christian Youth Center, looking lethal in his tight, white Tee, baggy denim jeans and hair down to there. Michael was the given name of the young girls dream and parent’s nightmare. If flags were raised and alarms sounded, as well they should have been, she was deliriously oblivious, obscured as they were by phalange flailings and the peals of giggles from her chorus of classmates. The little lamb, ripe for slaughter, willed him to take notice, and in doing so, did bid forth her own demise.
In the flesh and fresh out of reform school, probation papers still poking out his back pocket, Michael played it all cool and cocky. Like hunter seeking prey, he strutted, sniffed the air and assessed the room with his buddy Paulie. But when he spied her sitting on the bleachers on the far side of the gymnasium, so coy, forestalling inhibition, t’was Michael who became the quarry. It was at that exact moment that their peril was set in motion.
He turned to his chum, impetuously certain though helplessly smitten, and pointed her out. “Did my heart love ‘til now? Can I believe my own eyes? I never saw true beauty until I looked at her”. Paulie merely shrugged and tugged at his Dickies.
Like the tide, moved as it is by an envious moon, Michael was drawn to Tasia, pulled by her. Insanely hopeful, madly enrapt, he approached. She closed the Book in her lap with a snap to silence her glee club associates and offered a most inviting smile. Magnetic. Electric. Kinetic.
It might have continued on like that had she not broken the silence first. “Hey.” She said. “Hey.” He replied. Her chorus sniggered. “I’m Tasia.” Hypnotized and paralyzed, he closed his eyes. “Michael” he rasped. Another peal of giggles brought him back around again. “Tonight there’ll be a party over at my cousin Artie’s. I’ll pick you up at seven.” As Paulie dragged him away, Tasia thought she had died and gone to Heaven.
Later that very night, from opposite ends of town two households quite unalike in dignity, young lovers unwittingly prepared for their precarious destiny. The pastor’s daughter living in a ranch style house on a tree lined cul de sac and the beautician’s boy living in a mud and stucco hovel near the railway track, primped and posed in front of their respective bedroom mirrors. One sat primly, brushing out her hair. One hundred strokes, no more, no less. Her gaze transfixed by her own image while a Crystals’ song played in her head. The other stood shirtless and lean, bulging and flexing to strike imposing reflections. He was James Cagney, Public Enemy Number One, brandishing imaginary guns and a lethal snarl. “You’ll never take me alive, Coppers”, he mugged.
Oh so much time spent in front of their looking glasses. It only begs the question; forsooth, to whom were fortune’s fools, these lovers two, whom were they most enamored with? You reader, know the truth. It was they themselves enchanted them most. If the swain and his beloved both lived another 50 years times 50 years or perhaps 20 years or 2 years even, he likely wouldn’t remember her name and all that she would recall of her time with him would be embarrassment and shame. But for tonight, they were heady with carnal longing and expectation. Their love was mythic, epic, classic. Their desire would not be denied.
Michael was as good as his word, albeit late. But when he arrived at her door at half past seven to pick up his date, her father was not impressed. The Misfits t-shirt, eyebrow piercing and fleshy odor all offended. He refused to let the boy see his daughter. The door closed in his face, sent away, dejected. Michael thought that this was entirely unexpected.
When she discovered what her Daddy had done, the girl heart-broken and miserable ran through the house screaming, “You have no right! You don’t even know him! I hate you!” and threw herself on her bed, crying inconsolably.
“That one is trouble”, he said to his wife as he watched the hoodlum backing down the street. “No good can come of this”. Perhaps, it might be argued, he was too harsh, too quick to judge. Unlikely though. He was her father, her king and sire. He wanted only to protect his little princess. And he also knew a truth about that boy; that he was like all boys of an age. Having been a boy once himself, he understood that young men’s lurid urges were ungovernable. “My child is yet a stranger in the world” and he meant to keep it that way. He shouted back down the hallway that it was all for her own good. A door slammed. Just as likely, the father’s denial was as much for his own peace of mind.
Divine decree be damned, Michael would not so easily be deprived. To reach her by phone he tried and tried, only to be answered with, “She can’t come to the phone” and “don’t call here again!” and SLAM! His own mother, stinking of peroxide and Lambrusco, said, “Forget about that girl, she’s too good for you anyway and have you been taking your pills?” Still he believed that what must be shall be. So he opted for a different play.
Under shadowy cloak of night, he risked all to tap at her window. Rising from her bed, ethereal and waiflike, Tasia went to him. “You shouldn’t be here, it isn’t safe”, she warned. “This will be your place of death if my father finds you at my sill”. But Michael was not afraid, emboldened as he was by his desire. He would rather die than fail in it. He begged her out. She did not hesitate.
They slipped away together into the midnight murk. Under star-crossed skies, they professed sensual desires, their true love grown to excess. And they bemoaned their lot, cursing both their houses with plague. “We can never go back”, she warned. “They’ll never let us be together.”
“I dreamed a dream”, he told her. “A portent that you and I, we two alone, must make our escape together or die trying.” In haste, they agreed. It was decided. That very night, tonight, they would run. The plan they made was a desperate one.
Is love a tender thing? No. Love is amoral. You know this. Love is a violent, frantic and overwhelming force. And violent delights have violent ends. When her father discovered the empty bed and empty garage, he put his fist through a wall and vowed that he would catch those kids and the hooligan would pay. “I’m gonna kill that little SOB!” he shrieked as he dialed the police number.
The open road tempted them, called to them and coaxed them on, while The Animals blared on the radio of her father’s stolen truck. Just one last stop at the 7-Eleven for supplies before they hit out North on highway 87 to begin their time without end. “Get me a box of Chicklets, and a Cherry Coke Big Gulp, oh and a pack of Lucky’s”, she asked as she put a tongue in his ear. He smiled his big toothy smile and said, “Keep the engine running, Baby”
He was only gone a minute, back in a flash, and ready to roll. But first, one last embrace. They were too tangled in each other to notice the arrival of five Black & Whites. When they finally tore themselves apart and looked up, Michael and Tasia found themselves surrounded by an assembly of officers with guns drawn. “Step out of the vehicle with your hands up” Time stopped. A murder of crows overhead froze in mid-flight. The cashier in the convenience store held his breath and ducked behind the counter. The air, sweet with orange blossoms, became still. Michael turned to Tasia. She looked back at him. They communicated their compact and their commitment through words implied but unspoken. If all else fails, they knew that they still had the power to die. He revved the engine and slipped the vehicle into gear.
* * * * * *
Red and White lights strobe on the cab of the Toyota Land Cruiser. It was a private tomb inside which they lay in their eternal embrace, no warmth, no breath. Parting smoke and dust reveal two, mortally wounded from the bullet barrage, the hail of gunfire. Blood pools with motor oil on the asphalt beneath the truck. Behind yellow tape, an Action5 newscaster in her tight blue blazer checks the shot. The silvery haired reporter, always first on the scene, ever comfortable with tragedy and giddy at the scent of death, shoves her microphone in the face of the grieving parents to pose her question; “Who’s to blame in this tragedy, the police, Ritalin, popular media or video games?”
While there could be no agreement on fault, everyone granted that Officer Bellow’s MP5 submachine gun use was excessive. “They were good kids,” wept the girl’s father. “They didn’t deserve this”. A wreath was placed at the scene, memorial to young love, between the ice machine and the video vending booth.
Fatter Tuesday: AKA Fat Tuesday? What happened to the rest of the week?
*** Author's disclaimer... This is a work of fiction-- any resemblance between the characters herein and real persons living or in a slow and steady state of decay is purely coincidental ***
Memories are an odd looking glass to utilize while bringing ones' life into perspective. They distort and focus at a whim. Thus, they are rather fickle accomplices in the matter of seeking clarity. As such, the old phrase, "If memory serves me" will have to be employed as a preface to the tales that will unfold here. Point of fact, I'm sure this can't be how my life really happened. It even feels distorted to me at this point. However, it's what I remember, and that's all that I can provide in good conscience.
From the start, I don't intend to give you the impression that my life is all rain and no sunshine, either. That is nowhere near the truth. The fact of the matter is I've had a better life than most in all of the important ways. I had a family that loved me, parents that were always supportive and a home where I always felt at peace. Socially, I was awkward at best. But that's neither here nor there. For the most part, I live a rather normal existence.
Contrary to that statement, I will say that I don't consider my romantic entanglements to be in any way normal. At least, they aren't in keeping with the fashionable dating habits of the average American male. I can count on one hand the number of women I've been with sexually, I've never had a one-night stand (and for an artist, that's a feat) and I have yet to be in a relationship that I would consider having the capacity for longevity. I simply cannot find a sane woman that would love me, or an insane woman who wouldn't.
Sexually speaking, my forays into bedroom affairs have not been steamy-- to date I have no stories that end with, "and then she rended my clothing from my feverish flesh in an enraptured ecstasy." Mostly, my encounters with women involve a lot of giggling, fumbling and occasional cranial collisions which leave all involved either bleeding or laughing riotously. Not exactly something that I can imagine being committed to celluloid, unless it was being utilized for some teen-flick exposing awkward adolescent exploration. There aren't even a wide variety of positions being employed, come to think of it. The one time I considered attempting a new, wild configuration I misappropriated my weight and managed to flip my futon over on top of my partner and I. Thus, the giggling.
Given that I was sired into a culture absolutely permeated with sex, I grew up under the impression that my planet was a hedonic cesspool wherein one is encouraged to indulge every hormonal whim that should arise at any given instant. I pictured the whole of society humping like hopped-up rabbits and loving every minute of it. At least, that was what MTV wanted me to think, right? It was only with age and experience with actual intimacy that I came to realize that our porn-star paradigms are actually gross exaggerations of a particular facet of the human condition, like superheroes. They do things that, for reasons either physical or psychological, the common man never thought possible. So, just think of it as cheap entertainment. In my estimation, pornography beats solitaire hands down.
At this point, I can't help but reflect on these things. It isn't as though there is any stimulus available to keep me from diving into my subconscious at any given interval. No-- unfortunately, I have to earn a living. I am paid predominantly to cope with the joys of transcribing medical examiner's tape-recorded notes. Thus, I get to exist transfixed by a computer screen, letting my time sift through the system like sand through the hourglass for 40 interminable hours a week. The position provides obvious medical coverage, a decent retirement package and ample opportunity for reflection. At my age, that simply cannot be healthy. Thank God for the life insurance policy.
Its 3:37 on a Tuesday and my ass is completely numb from inhabiting this ergonomic brick-red bastard chair all day. The incline is steep enough that you are constantly assuming a speed-skier posture. How this is beneficial to office conduct, I will never grasp. What this means is I've been ruminating my current relationship woes with Emily for nearly 8 hours, and I'm about to blow a gasket.
It isn't that the situation is that desperate. It's not even that it's complicated, either. I simply have a preternatural need for a romantic connection with a woman. It's a pressure that I'm only exerting on myself, and yet I can't seem to turn it off. I'm not exactly ready for marriage, per-say, but I'm certainly sick of dating all together. And given the sordid history I have with emotional attachment, you can imagine why. Well, perhaps you can't. No matter. You'll get it eventually; but this is where the story starts to get complicated
________________________________________________________________
Yesterday evening, I had finally conned Emily into a dinner date. It was our first in nearly three months. However, given the nature of our conversation, I believe it will be our last for quite some time. If I can state the obvious, I don't believe asking someone if they think it best that you'd never met them is a good way to create a sense of unity. Her reaction was understandable.
"What exactly brought this on?"
Her intonation wasn't one of sarcastic comprehension. It was one of absolute annoyed confusion. My timing wasn't exactly impeccable, either. We were in the middle of discussing the wedding of one of her close friends, and at that exact moment she was searching for the straw in her Diet Coke with her mouth rather than her eyes. It was one of a million things that had me absolutely taken with her, thus completely disabling my logic meter and spurring me into an affectionate cooing mode.
"You're terribly cute when you do that."
"Do what?"
"Try to find your straw on instinct. It's adorable... and it's one of the things that make me wish I didn't know you."
"If that was intended to be a compliment, your dismount needs a little work."
"I met the ghost of romance-past last night... you know, contemplated where you and I would be right now had we never crossed paths..."
Pause inserted for dramatic effect. Why can't I just take my life seriously? Why am I always acting as though I'm being filmed at any given interval? Yes, I sit around rehearsing these speeches. Who doesn't? You don't want to have to shoot from the hip when you're explaining yourself to a woman who's a hairs breadth away from never speaking to you again... and yet I contrive something that I am fully aware she will be offended by as a way to push her over the edge. If you love someone-- set them free, right? It serves me right for counting on the merit of pop music.
"Upon reflection, I can't say that it would be a terrible thing, Em. You'd be a great deal happier, I'm sure. You wouldn't have to worry about constantly evading my advances... you would have settled down with that nice, muscular boy you've grown so fond of. It would make things a bit easier, wouldn't it?"
Her frustration began to show as she shook her head at me, and launched into what I refer to as "Em-speak." Thoughts begin to generate faster than her mouth can feasibly move, and she attempts to counterbalance by following these thoughts rather than articulating anything.
"Are you completely... I mean... What do his muscles have to do with any...? And I do not EVADE you... and you certainly haven't complained about the... And how do you... Where do you get off? I mean, I come out... And why do we have to do this in a restaurant? What's wrong with... and what do you WANT me to say to you? I can't even... You always... WHAT IS YOUR DEAL???"
Obviously, you can't answer any of this. At least, I can't. Every time I try, she cuts me off with another question. I find it's best to ride out the wave, but that usually ends badly.
She ended the tirade and simply stared daggers into me while taking long drags from her Coke. If looks could kill, I'd be in critical condition...I'm not sure why I entered into this with the intention of making her angry. Maybe that was the best way to let her rid herself of me guilt-free. If I were an asshole, she could walk out that door with the same righteous indignation which I used to justify my anxieties. She knows I love her, and I suppose it's just pitiable enough to keep her from severing contact with me completely. Perhaps making her view me as insane as opposed to pitiful made an easier transition in my mind. I always assumed that she really wanted nothing to do with me. However, as I had on so many occasions, I misjudged her heart.
I was staring at the table now, because I didn't see any suitable way to either explain my intentions or to back out gracefully from the conversation. I'd written myself into an inexorable conclusion, and all I could do was wait for the other shoe to drop. Her voice broke the silence like a razor through skin.
"And how would it be for you, Andrew? Would everything be easier for you if you'd never met me?"
Her voice quivered a bit, and she bit her lip as though trying to contain a tsunami in her head. As the first tear shed it's cover and tumbled down the bridge of her nose--trying in some small way to soothe the wound I'd just inflicted-- I woke up enough to grasp my ignorance. It was too little-- too late, I fear. As such, resigned as I was to hammering the final nail into my coffin lid, I completed the speech as written.
"The way I see it, I'd be blissful in my ignorance. I could live each day without the knowledge that my soul-mate was out pandering to the bar-and-party set for the sake of accruing life experience... I'd never know that she was kissing strangers and taking names because she simply can't admit to herself that she deserves to be treated with love and kindness by someone who knows and understands her... and I certainly wouldn't have to relive the moment of my 'I love you' being met with a resounding silence and an apologetic gaze. So, at this point, I think I'd be pretty well-off."
I've never seen anyone leave a table that quickly. She was a marvel of motor-skill. In one deft move she'd collected her purse, wiped the tear from her eye and slid out of the booth. She was at the door before I'd even had a chance to breathe again. My head slipped into my hands as though struggling with the weight of what had just occurred, and I explored the thread-count of the table cloth for a moment. The waiter's voice sounded like a horn through the fog of my bereavement.
"Is everything all right, sir?"
I didn't respond. All I could contemplate was how ironic it was that Queen was playing on the restaurant musak.
"Another one bites the dust..."
Memories are an odd looking glass to utilize while bringing ones' life into perspective. They distort and focus at a whim. Thus, they are rather fickle accomplices in the matter of seeking clarity. As such, the old phrase, "If memory serves me" will have to be employed as a preface to the tales that will unfold here. Point of fact, I'm sure this can't be how my life really happened. It even feels distorted to me at this point. However, it's what I remember, and that's all that I can provide in good conscience.
From the start, I don't intend to give you the impression that my life is all rain and no sunshine, either. That is nowhere near the truth. The fact of the matter is I've had a better life than most in all of the important ways. I had a family that loved me, parents that were always supportive and a home where I always felt at peace. Socially, I was awkward at best. But that's neither here nor there. For the most part, I live a rather normal existence.
Contrary to that statement, I will say that I don't consider my romantic entanglements to be in any way normal. At least, they aren't in keeping with the fashionable dating habits of the average American male. I can count on one hand the number of women I've been with sexually, I've never had a one-night stand (and for an artist, that's a feat) and I have yet to be in a relationship that I would consider having the capacity for longevity. I simply cannot find a sane woman that would love me, or an insane woman who wouldn't.
Sexually speaking, my forays into bedroom affairs have not been steamy-- to date I have no stories that end with, "and then she rended my clothing from my feverish flesh in an enraptured ecstasy." Mostly, my encounters with women involve a lot of giggling, fumbling and occasional cranial collisions which leave all involved either bleeding or laughing riotously. Not exactly something that I can imagine being committed to celluloid, unless it was being utilized for some teen-flick exposing awkward adolescent exploration. There aren't even a wide variety of positions being employed, come to think of it. The one time I considered attempting a new, wild configuration I misappropriated my weight and managed to flip my futon over on top of my partner and I. Thus, the giggling.
Given that I was sired into a culture absolutely permeated with sex, I grew up under the impression that my planet was a hedonic cesspool wherein one is encouraged to indulge every hormonal whim that should arise at any given instant. I pictured the whole of society humping like hopped-up rabbits and loving every minute of it. At least, that was what MTV wanted me to think, right? It was only with age and experience with actual intimacy that I came to realize that our porn-star paradigms are actually gross exaggerations of a particular facet of the human condition, like superheroes. They do things that, for reasons either physical or psychological, the common man never thought possible. So, just think of it as cheap entertainment. In my estimation, pornography beats solitaire hands down.
At this point, I can't help but reflect on these things. It isn't as though there is any stimulus available to keep me from diving into my subconscious at any given interval. No-- unfortunately, I have to earn a living. I am paid predominantly to cope with the joys of transcribing medical examiner's tape-recorded notes. Thus, I get to exist transfixed by a computer screen, letting my time sift through the system like sand through the hourglass for 40 interminable hours a week. The position provides obvious medical coverage, a decent retirement package and ample opportunity for reflection. At my age, that simply cannot be healthy. Thank God for the life insurance policy.
Its 3:37 on a Tuesday and my ass is completely numb from inhabiting this ergonomic brick-red bastard chair all day. The incline is steep enough that you are constantly assuming a speed-skier posture. How this is beneficial to office conduct, I will never grasp. What this means is I've been ruminating my current relationship woes with Emily for nearly 8 hours, and I'm about to blow a gasket.
It isn't that the situation is that desperate. It's not even that it's complicated, either. I simply have a preternatural need for a romantic connection with a woman. It's a pressure that I'm only exerting on myself, and yet I can't seem to turn it off. I'm not exactly ready for marriage, per-say, but I'm certainly sick of dating all together. And given the sordid history I have with emotional attachment, you can imagine why. Well, perhaps you can't. No matter. You'll get it eventually; but this is where the story starts to get complicated
________________________________________________________________
Yesterday evening, I had finally conned Emily into a dinner date. It was our first in nearly three months. However, given the nature of our conversation, I believe it will be our last for quite some time. If I can state the obvious, I don't believe asking someone if they think it best that you'd never met them is a good way to create a sense of unity. Her reaction was understandable.
"What exactly brought this on?"
Her intonation wasn't one of sarcastic comprehension. It was one of absolute annoyed confusion. My timing wasn't exactly impeccable, either. We were in the middle of discussing the wedding of one of her close friends, and at that exact moment she was searching for the straw in her Diet Coke with her mouth rather than her eyes. It was one of a million things that had me absolutely taken with her, thus completely disabling my logic meter and spurring me into an affectionate cooing mode.
"You're terribly cute when you do that."
"Do what?"
"Try to find your straw on instinct. It's adorable... and it's one of the things that make me wish I didn't know you."
"If that was intended to be a compliment, your dismount needs a little work."
"I met the ghost of romance-past last night... you know, contemplated where you and I would be right now had we never crossed paths..."
Pause inserted for dramatic effect. Why can't I just take my life seriously? Why am I always acting as though I'm being filmed at any given interval? Yes, I sit around rehearsing these speeches. Who doesn't? You don't want to have to shoot from the hip when you're explaining yourself to a woman who's a hairs breadth away from never speaking to you again... and yet I contrive something that I am fully aware she will be offended by as a way to push her over the edge. If you love someone-- set them free, right? It serves me right for counting on the merit of pop music.
"Upon reflection, I can't say that it would be a terrible thing, Em. You'd be a great deal happier, I'm sure. You wouldn't have to worry about constantly evading my advances... you would have settled down with that nice, muscular boy you've grown so fond of. It would make things a bit easier, wouldn't it?"
Her frustration began to show as she shook her head at me, and launched into what I refer to as "Em-speak." Thoughts begin to generate faster than her mouth can feasibly move, and she attempts to counterbalance by following these thoughts rather than articulating anything.
"Are you completely... I mean... What do his muscles have to do with any...? And I do not EVADE you... and you certainly haven't complained about the... And how do you... Where do you get off? I mean, I come out... And why do we have to do this in a restaurant? What's wrong with... and what do you WANT me to say to you? I can't even... You always... WHAT IS YOUR DEAL???"
Obviously, you can't answer any of this. At least, I can't. Every time I try, she cuts me off with another question. I find it's best to ride out the wave, but that usually ends badly.
She ended the tirade and simply stared daggers into me while taking long drags from her Coke. If looks could kill, I'd be in critical condition...I'm not sure why I entered into this with the intention of making her angry. Maybe that was the best way to let her rid herself of me guilt-free. If I were an asshole, she could walk out that door with the same righteous indignation which I used to justify my anxieties. She knows I love her, and I suppose it's just pitiable enough to keep her from severing contact with me completely. Perhaps making her view me as insane as opposed to pitiful made an easier transition in my mind. I always assumed that she really wanted nothing to do with me. However, as I had on so many occasions, I misjudged her heart.
I was staring at the table now, because I didn't see any suitable way to either explain my intentions or to back out gracefully from the conversation. I'd written myself into an inexorable conclusion, and all I could do was wait for the other shoe to drop. Her voice broke the silence like a razor through skin.
"And how would it be for you, Andrew? Would everything be easier for you if you'd never met me?"
Her voice quivered a bit, and she bit her lip as though trying to contain a tsunami in her head. As the first tear shed it's cover and tumbled down the bridge of her nose--trying in some small way to soothe the wound I'd just inflicted-- I woke up enough to grasp my ignorance. It was too little-- too late, I fear. As such, resigned as I was to hammering the final nail into my coffin lid, I completed the speech as written.
"The way I see it, I'd be blissful in my ignorance. I could live each day without the knowledge that my soul-mate was out pandering to the bar-and-party set for the sake of accruing life experience... I'd never know that she was kissing strangers and taking names because she simply can't admit to herself that she deserves to be treated with love and kindness by someone who knows and understands her... and I certainly wouldn't have to relive the moment of my 'I love you' being met with a resounding silence and an apologetic gaze. So, at this point, I think I'd be pretty well-off."
I've never seen anyone leave a table that quickly. She was a marvel of motor-skill. In one deft move she'd collected her purse, wiped the tear from her eye and slid out of the booth. She was at the door before I'd even had a chance to breathe again. My head slipped into my hands as though struggling with the weight of what had just occurred, and I explored the thread-count of the table cloth for a moment. The waiter's voice sounded like a horn through the fog of my bereavement.
"Is everything all right, sir?"
I didn't respond. All I could contemplate was how ironic it was that Queen was playing on the restaurant musak.
"Another one bites the dust..."
The Trouble With Love Is...
*** Author's disclaimer... This is a work of fiction-- any resemblance between the characters herein and real persons living or in a slow and steady state of decay is purely coincidental ***
Three Dog Night said it best... "One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do." Truer words were never spoken. And how does one advance beyond the singular state? I couldn't tell you. My forays into that masochistic realm have been nothing if not painful and embarrassing. Need convincing? All right...
The easiest way to put you in my shoes is to give you a little basis for comparison. My version of Bill Cosby's "The same thing happens every night." It's the sort of situation one prays to never be in. To be honest, I've wished it on others from time to time, but in reality couldn't fathom that such an incident would occur in my own life. Karma simply couldn't be that cruel. However, it's become a normal Saturday night scenario for me. Boy meets girl, boy pursues girl, girl files restraining order. Or at least, some sick derivation of that basic premise. It's not a normal existence, that's what I'm driving at. Thus, there I was, coping with one of life's little side-swipes sans preparation yet again. Truly operating on the fly. As such, grace was far from a possibility. The doe-eyed optimist in me stood on the road to oblivion, and God decided to cue the headlights.
Of course it involves a young woman. How could it not, right? Age is supposed to prevent all of this insanity. Well, we'll get around to how preposterous that notion is later... Who was she, you may ask? That doesn't really matter at this point... Neither of us will be seeing any more of her. This oh-so-brief appearance is merely to acquaint you with the discourse I've dealt with ad-nauseam since I developed an interest in the opposite sex... which, given the fact that I developed an unhealthy attraction to women in kindergarten, means I've accrued enough angst at this point in my life to spontaneously combust vital organs.
For the sake of context, her name was Chrissy... not Christine, as that sounded far too rigid for her. (At this point, if the woman's name is too confining for her, you can imagine the layers of inhibition she's shed in her lifetime) We met at one of my shows, and got along so swimmingly that we began to hang out frequently. We ran the ordinary routine of getting to know one another, and we clicked in all the important ways (when you're young and oblivious to actuality, that is). We listened to the same music, we knew the same films, we shared favorite authors. We were uber-compatible. Soon, we were inseparable.
When I wasn't busy pouring my heart out with my sappy little tunes about loss and rejection to endear myself to her, we were involved in gross physical entanglements in the cab of my Suzuki Sidekick (which, for the size of said cab, firmly established a permanent jerky nerve in my lower-back). We were a young couple in love, or so I thought... This was even in spite of the fact that she was nearly 7 years my senior, and a divorcee. That alone should have illuminated the rocky road we were bound for... However, as has been proven over the ages time and again, love is apparently blind.
As evidence of this woman's disdain for restraint, the first intimate detail she shared with me when we met was a rather lurid tale about engaging in a sexual act with a bartender on the bar during business hours. She then proceeded to describe in excessive detail every instance wherein either she or her partner were sexually gratified during the span of her entire life. Needless to say, this sent up warning flares... however, we were young. These exploits are expected in today's do-what-you feel culture. Also of note, she had her hands on my thighs while she was recounting these stories. As such, she could have told me she killed Kennedy, and I would have nodded approvingly and smiled that sexpot-ensnaring grin I've developed in the hopes of escalating the mood.
So, with that in mind, one fine evening she arrived at my apartment effervescing, so charged with positive energy that she could barely contain herself. I was of course intrigued.
"So, what's got you all a-flutter? Did you finally meet a man who will mix you as well as he mixes drinks?"
The tragic thing was, she said yes.
She said it as though it were the most naturalistic thing in the world. She'd met someone three days ago at a bar-- and they were having a wonderful time indulging their sexual appetites together. She only seemed disturbed by my apparent lack of enthusiasm.
"What's wrong?" she said, "Aren't you happy for me?"
Her coital involvement with a stranger and total disregard for my feelings aside, I couldn't quite grasp that she was being serious. I felt as though it were some cruel joke I was misunderstanding. As such, I replied with similar candor.
"Oh, yeah, my girlfriend has found someone else to dissolve his cinnamon stick in her coffee... I'm ELATED, hon! Let's go get drinks to celebrate!"
The sarcasm wasn't lost on her, and yet a look of confusion invaded her face for a moment. She then paused, and plaintively gazed into my eyes.
"You think I'm your girlfriend?"
Enter the awkward silence. Perhaps she was being serious. Yet, I still replied with all the cute-n-cuddly I could muster.
"Oh, of course not. I like to make-out and hold hands with everyone I meet. I find it's the easiest way of getting acquainted."
I don't know why she took my hand to say this next bit. This kind of stab is normally administered from behind. However, it seems she preferred to try and register my reaction as the words spilled, awkward and tentative as a gynecologist on a maiden voyage.
"Andrew, you're the coolest guy I know. I really wish that I could be attracted to you in that way, but I think of you as more of a brother than a boyfriend. You're far too nice a guy for me to be in a relationship with-- You understand, right?"
Houston: we've officially lost cabin pressure. Of COURSE I understood... I'd completely forgotten that incest was chic these days. It's as natural to tongue-kiss someone you view as your brother as it is to have sex with your cousins and run off to join the Future Carnival Workers of America. How could I have possibly not grasped the intricacies of that logic?
Is there really any dignified way to react to such a statement? Really... Because my half-hearted attempt at grace was to simply stand dumbfounded and glaring, half-hoping that a teleprompter scroll would appear at any moment in her eyes. There was no hope, however, of coaxing dialogue from this foreign matter that suddenly took up residence in my mouth. I believe it was my pride: and I was choking it down to the best of my ability.
I'm not sure how it was possible for her to interpret the look on my face as understanding in any form, but she ploughed on.
"I mean, you're such a great guy. I love spending time with you. I don't want to spoil all that by making this a physical thing. It would be such a waste."
Needle and thread, please. I think we have a bleeder.
I kept tonguing the inside of my cheek, the way one would when being plagued by a nasty cold-sore. It was the closest thing to speech I could muster. The paralysis was not total however-- I could make a fist: and I promptly did so. I squeezed as though my entire life was slipping through my fingers, and I had to try and salvage what I could before relinquishing it to the breeze. She then ventured to continue with the inevitable imbecilic question that begs to be inserted in every conversation of this kind.
"Are you mad?"
I distinctly recall at least feeling a snap. It may not have been visible, but something slid either into or out of alignment in my head shifting the blockage on the bile that was steadily accumulating in my esophagus. The torrent of verbal-vomit that followed was akin to the disgorging of a frat-party attendee. It was necessary for survival, no matter how messy it made things. The exact phraseology is a blur, as my lips were moving so fast that I doubt I was forming syllables.
However, I specifically recall ending the rant with, "Causing an erection can not be considered growth in a relationship, so your measure of what constitutes a commitment can't have a very broad scope, but PLEASE wake up and realize that making men who respect you your friends and making men who use you as a talking toilet your lovers is not a bright idea. I hope at some point you evolve beyond that limited perspective, but I'm not holding my breath... My sincerest apologies for actually seeing you as something other than a cum repository."
After this orgasm of fury erupted, my knees were shaking and her eyes were slightly glossed. This must be what sex with her is like, I thought. You take every bit of dignity she has to make yourself feel better, and leave while she's cleaning up. However, I believe she was used to men spewing filth on her... just not in the psychological sense. Perhaps I generalized. Maybe I didn't necessarily fully assess the situation and attempt to truly grasp what had motivated her to quickly quell what I had taken to be our ceaselessly budding romance.
In any case, as the door slammed shut behind her I realized that I had actually answered her question...
Three Dog Night said it best... "One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do." Truer words were never spoken. And how does one advance beyond the singular state? I couldn't tell you. My forays into that masochistic realm have been nothing if not painful and embarrassing. Need convincing? All right...
The easiest way to put you in my shoes is to give you a little basis for comparison. My version of Bill Cosby's "The same thing happens every night." It's the sort of situation one prays to never be in. To be honest, I've wished it on others from time to time, but in reality couldn't fathom that such an incident would occur in my own life. Karma simply couldn't be that cruel. However, it's become a normal Saturday night scenario for me. Boy meets girl, boy pursues girl, girl files restraining order. Or at least, some sick derivation of that basic premise. It's not a normal existence, that's what I'm driving at. Thus, there I was, coping with one of life's little side-swipes sans preparation yet again. Truly operating on the fly. As such, grace was far from a possibility. The doe-eyed optimist in me stood on the road to oblivion, and God decided to cue the headlights.
Of course it involves a young woman. How could it not, right? Age is supposed to prevent all of this insanity. Well, we'll get around to how preposterous that notion is later... Who was she, you may ask? That doesn't really matter at this point... Neither of us will be seeing any more of her. This oh-so-brief appearance is merely to acquaint you with the discourse I've dealt with ad-nauseam since I developed an interest in the opposite sex... which, given the fact that I developed an unhealthy attraction to women in kindergarten, means I've accrued enough angst at this point in my life to spontaneously combust vital organs.
For the sake of context, her name was Chrissy... not Christine, as that sounded far too rigid for her. (At this point, if the woman's name is too confining for her, you can imagine the layers of inhibition she's shed in her lifetime) We met at one of my shows, and got along so swimmingly that we began to hang out frequently. We ran the ordinary routine of getting to know one another, and we clicked in all the important ways (when you're young and oblivious to actuality, that is). We listened to the same music, we knew the same films, we shared favorite authors. We were uber-compatible. Soon, we were inseparable.
When I wasn't busy pouring my heart out with my sappy little tunes about loss and rejection to endear myself to her, we were involved in gross physical entanglements in the cab of my Suzuki Sidekick (which, for the size of said cab, firmly established a permanent jerky nerve in my lower-back). We were a young couple in love, or so I thought... This was even in spite of the fact that she was nearly 7 years my senior, and a divorcee. That alone should have illuminated the rocky road we were bound for... However, as has been proven over the ages time and again, love is apparently blind.
As evidence of this woman's disdain for restraint, the first intimate detail she shared with me when we met was a rather lurid tale about engaging in a sexual act with a bartender on the bar during business hours. She then proceeded to describe in excessive detail every instance wherein either she or her partner were sexually gratified during the span of her entire life. Needless to say, this sent up warning flares... however, we were young. These exploits are expected in today's do-what-you feel culture. Also of note, she had her hands on my thighs while she was recounting these stories. As such, she could have told me she killed Kennedy, and I would have nodded approvingly and smiled that sexpot-ensnaring grin I've developed in the hopes of escalating the mood.
So, with that in mind, one fine evening she arrived at my apartment effervescing, so charged with positive energy that she could barely contain herself. I was of course intrigued.
"So, what's got you all a-flutter? Did you finally meet a man who will mix you as well as he mixes drinks?"
The tragic thing was, she said yes.
She said it as though it were the most naturalistic thing in the world. She'd met someone three days ago at a bar-- and they were having a wonderful time indulging their sexual appetites together. She only seemed disturbed by my apparent lack of enthusiasm.
"What's wrong?" she said, "Aren't you happy for me?"
Her coital involvement with a stranger and total disregard for my feelings aside, I couldn't quite grasp that she was being serious. I felt as though it were some cruel joke I was misunderstanding. As such, I replied with similar candor.
"Oh, yeah, my girlfriend has found someone else to dissolve his cinnamon stick in her coffee... I'm ELATED, hon! Let's go get drinks to celebrate!"
The sarcasm wasn't lost on her, and yet a look of confusion invaded her face for a moment. She then paused, and plaintively gazed into my eyes.
"You think I'm your girlfriend?"
Enter the awkward silence. Perhaps she was being serious. Yet, I still replied with all the cute-n-cuddly I could muster.
"Oh, of course not. I like to make-out and hold hands with everyone I meet. I find it's the easiest way of getting acquainted."
I don't know why she took my hand to say this next bit. This kind of stab is normally administered from behind. However, it seems she preferred to try and register my reaction as the words spilled, awkward and tentative as a gynecologist on a maiden voyage.
"Andrew, you're the coolest guy I know. I really wish that I could be attracted to you in that way, but I think of you as more of a brother than a boyfriend. You're far too nice a guy for me to be in a relationship with-- You understand, right?"
Houston: we've officially lost cabin pressure. Of COURSE I understood... I'd completely forgotten that incest was chic these days. It's as natural to tongue-kiss someone you view as your brother as it is to have sex with your cousins and run off to join the Future Carnival Workers of America. How could I have possibly not grasped the intricacies of that logic?
Is there really any dignified way to react to such a statement? Really... Because my half-hearted attempt at grace was to simply stand dumbfounded and glaring, half-hoping that a teleprompter scroll would appear at any moment in her eyes. There was no hope, however, of coaxing dialogue from this foreign matter that suddenly took up residence in my mouth. I believe it was my pride: and I was choking it down to the best of my ability.
I'm not sure how it was possible for her to interpret the look on my face as understanding in any form, but she ploughed on.
"I mean, you're such a great guy. I love spending time with you. I don't want to spoil all that by making this a physical thing. It would be such a waste."
Needle and thread, please. I think we have a bleeder.
I kept tonguing the inside of my cheek, the way one would when being plagued by a nasty cold-sore. It was the closest thing to speech I could muster. The paralysis was not total however-- I could make a fist: and I promptly did so. I squeezed as though my entire life was slipping through my fingers, and I had to try and salvage what I could before relinquishing it to the breeze. She then ventured to continue with the inevitable imbecilic question that begs to be inserted in every conversation of this kind.
"Are you mad?"
I distinctly recall at least feeling a snap. It may not have been visible, but something slid either into or out of alignment in my head shifting the blockage on the bile that was steadily accumulating in my esophagus. The torrent of verbal-vomit that followed was akin to the disgorging of a frat-party attendee. It was necessary for survival, no matter how messy it made things. The exact phraseology is a blur, as my lips were moving so fast that I doubt I was forming syllables.
However, I specifically recall ending the rant with, "Causing an erection can not be considered growth in a relationship, so your measure of what constitutes a commitment can't have a very broad scope, but PLEASE wake up and realize that making men who respect you your friends and making men who use you as a talking toilet your lovers is not a bright idea. I hope at some point you evolve beyond that limited perspective, but I'm not holding my breath... My sincerest apologies for actually seeing you as something other than a cum repository."
After this orgasm of fury erupted, my knees were shaking and her eyes were slightly glossed. This must be what sex with her is like, I thought. You take every bit of dignity she has to make yourself feel better, and leave while she's cleaning up. However, I believe she was used to men spewing filth on her... just not in the psychological sense. Perhaps I generalized. Maybe I didn't necessarily fully assess the situation and attempt to truly grasp what had motivated her to quickly quell what I had taken to be our ceaselessly budding romance.
In any case, as the door slammed shut behind her I realized that I had actually answered her question...
Thursday, July 31, 2008
A fool and his poem are soon parted...
I am reluctant to say it again--
The maiden voyage of that ship
crashed
headlong into the pier
foolishly expected to house it.
These thoughts
now bivouacked behind this
iron smile
betray their allegiance to
my better judgment--
(deserters to a cause
long lost)
some slinking down my throat
to churn up enough bile
to easily effect their liberation--
Others echo in my ears
pounding with my pulse
violently enough to shatter their
silent prison.
The remnant few
have stowed away in my brain,
seeking solace in the
relentless sobriety
of my thoughts.
This steel grin is a proper prison
for these turbulent words--
the Bastille for the
reverberations of this
cavernous heart,
the cell to house the resounding cries of
Idealistic Nature
and those who would deride him.
I conceal these frailties
in this fortress.
(a herd surrounding the feeble and
ill amongst it-
{the predators will ultimately
drive them from their midst}
they encircle the invalid few
out of an odd allegiance to kind;
to cause--
to calamity)
I shall be undone
by a word when the world ends.
The floodgates will open
to purge these tenuous tenants
of my subconscious--
and the ravenous hoards
of your eager ears
will engulf my advancing discourse...
those derelict thoughts
that I have stranded on shores of my Coeur
will be enfolded in the comforting caress
of your consideration.
Lips to ears,
this awkward kiss
is the mess we make when
rational thought falters.
The sojourn of these syllables
is short.
(breath is fleeting)
Wrapped up in a whisper
this tongue-tied oblivion
masquerading as a profound moment
leaves me tethered to the thoughts
I am sure to drown in.
The Captain Must
Go Down
With The Ship.
~$~
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