Indie felt queasy. She watched Beth and Mitch return walking through the alley across the street and she knew. They looked too far apart out there, and wore focus like masks that stared stiffly straight ahead. He had (finally) told her. So now what? Which choices would be hers? And what the fuck was she going to do?
Tracking their approach with her imagination more than her eyes, she sat behind the big lacquered pulpit of a counter with her face sunk into an unknown & oversized book. She anticipated the little silver-ring bell sounding only a few instant-beats before it actually did, and then waited until the very last straw of etiquette before raising her head slowly/reluctantly. The expression she thought she held in check blankly/frankly glowed her relief to see it was only one of them that entered--her one.
"Hey," she told him with an unexpected warm half-smile, come from force of a formerly good habit.
"Hey." His eyes wandered, distracted as was his own habit. Who was she to call it good or bad, now?
She stood up when he neared and he finally looked at her dead-on, seeming startled when he did so. Though she partly expected him to lean in and gently kiss her cheek--one of his dearest talents, (gentleness)--she knew she couldn't allow the gesture were it offered. But this time it wasn't.
She looked at him hard & soft(ly), as she always had. Hard as in closely, and determined to see whatever (was/) he held there; and soft with inexplicable affection, which afflicted her in his presence even now. Regardless of her efforts to neutralize/dilute the reaction/response with well-justified resentment, the latter just wouldn't stick, so far as she could tell. Not that it mattered--her mind was made up despite her self-traitorous body or soul (embodied soul?).
"Where'd she run off to?" Indie asked Mitch with light curiosity.
"She said she still had ten minutes of break time left--told me to tell you she'd be back in a bit." He looked slightly dazzled, or at a loss for words. "How've you been?," he questoned at last.
Indie had no idea what to do with him--her man, of ?? years, standing before her with his shoulders drawn up, knowing his betrayal of her, & knowing too that she knew, that he'd been playing a liar. Except he was just the same! He hated the part of her that refused to change, and yet she loved that part of him that just couldn't, regardless of every method he'd tried as instant remedy. She loved the timid/shy/sheepish blue that his eyes stayed (shaped) and showed; she loved his heavy, pointless heart, and his fruitless efforts to do some nameless SOMETHING that he could be proud of (at last); his fantastical standards for love, romance, & an ideal of life, even if these where the very things that doomed them (her) to failure (with/for him).
And so/thus/of course he hated that steel in her, could never condone its duplicity/unwillingness or disvaluing of sacrifice, which meant that simply by having decided so she would never again allow him to touch her face or hand, despite the fact of all her remaining love--for him, yes, but also for all the things that he couldn't live with, within himself.
So then, what? His face tilted down the incline of his three extra inches. She refrained from reaching up to stroke his chin, in careless-lover fashion. She glanced down instead, and watched/saw her hands do a brief drumming motion/movement against her thighs before looking up again. "Fine. How's goes it with you?" she asked non-committally.
"Okay. How's your day going?"
"Not bad," she shrugged off his lack of (sexual) tension and ridiculously irritating politeness.
They hadn't seen each other for four days, since he'd moved out of her/their apartment last week. They "weren't making a thing of it" however, which turned out to translate into "kept it a secret from their friends."
Well, most of their friends--she supposed Beth now knew. Of course, Beth was mostly more his friend anyway--working together nearly daily hadn't bridged up the gaping hole in communication that she and Beth had in common. Or more accurately, didn't have in common. They liked each other well enough, though. And who knew? After all, it suddenly looked like they had something more in common than they'd realized. Or rather, someone.
The scene short came its ending, & drizzle-stop ran the static that next fell.
Showing posts with label Indie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Indie. Show all posts
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Indie
Her skirt rode up her thighs when she sat; she'd never worn this short before and she remained alarmingly aware of it. Sex is so boring, she thought. Or at least the mere mention of it, without the expectation of follow-through. And DISTRACTING at that, even from the possibility of actual attraction--so impossible is it to meet another person's eyes, dressed in this presumably obvious way. Just let go of the vanity, she urged herself silently, trying to focus on the jasmine breeze instead.
Just as her mind wandered to the potential of vining plants--the lovely fragrance of bougenvillia or the proud shape-color of ivy--her at last almost selfless musings were interrupted rather pleasantly: "Hey there, sweetheart." Sure, a rebellious irritation/offense struck her before anything else, but then she looked up to match the familiar face with the even more familiar voice--although entirely out of place as both or them were--and saw the only man with implicit permission to address her such.
"Dad?! Where'd you come from? What are you doing up here?"
"I took a drive. Check it out..."
He indicated at a place down the street, and she leaned over the coffeehouse railing to encounter the view: a Streamliner travel trailer--the thing he'd dreamed about simce at least as far back as she had breath in her. She 'whoooaa'-ed her delighted appreciation at the sight of his now-tangible wish, while wondering tangentially whether tea could be brewed from any sweet-smelling flower?
Just as her mind wandered to the potential of vining plants--the lovely fragrance of bougenvillia or the proud shape-color of ivy--her at last almost selfless musings were interrupted rather pleasantly: "Hey there, sweetheart." Sure, a rebellious irritation/offense struck her before anything else, but then she looked up to match the familiar face with the even more familiar voice--although entirely out of place as both or them were--and saw the only man with implicit permission to address her such.
"Dad?! Where'd you come from? What are you doing up here?"
"I took a drive. Check it out..."
He indicated at a place down the street, and she leaned over the coffeehouse railing to encounter the view: a Streamliner travel trailer--the thing he'd dreamed about simce at least as far back as she had breath in her. She 'whoooaa'-ed her delighted appreciation at the sight of his now-tangible wish, while wondering tangentially whether tea could be brewed from any sweet-smelling flower?
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Mitch & Indie
There was nothing wrong with them--they only had to move one, without one another. That night the look in her eyes was foreign to him in a way that he could hold no curiosity for. Like an absence of light that's not quite black, but perpetually at its bidding/on its track.
All along, she maintained that the things which must be made up of more than one soul--that those things themselves have no true substance. Coldly, she'd concluded that their love was intrinsically reciprocal--so that his (perceived) failure at its altar meant that it had ceased to exist. Poof she'd said, cruelly, denying his eager/own wan apologies.
All along, she maintained that the things which must be made up of more than one soul--that those things themselves have no true substance. Coldly, she'd concluded that their love was intrinsically reciprocal--so that his (perceived) failure at its altar meant that it had ceased to exist. Poof she'd said, cruelly, denying his eager/own wan apologies.
Indie & Mitch
"Do you know that this is not okay?" That grasping your eyes does to my throat somehow when they meet my eyes, might not happen this time, I thought. I close my eyes anyway, instead of looking at you, letting you panic alone/with privacy.
"I only knew you were going to say that," you said. I heard the subtly shaking tone, despite the flippant/calm words. I felt so drained at what would happen next, luckily this new challenge of yours piqued my old anger just enough to get each next word almost fully out of me. What of these I kept, I already realized that I'd never again shake them.
Speaking a bit too slowly, I felt, I said this time: "I want you to know, that if you don't offer to move out by the end of tonight('s end), I won't stay to the morning." My voice sounded like belting-down hale onto a gray parked-car that lived in our past. So much arbitrary history...arbitrarily betrayed?
"Why would you tell me such a thing?" No longer pretending Mr. Cool-Guy, I noted from somewhere farther away then the mere feet that set us (engulfed and) apart. "You don't have to go anywhere, and why the hell would I!?"
"Stop it," I didn't have to look at him to see him drop his arms at my fatalistic tone. "One way or another, tomorrow we'll be living separately. But please..." I felt/heard vaguely the telltale signature of a voice about to break, even though it was my own. "Could you do something for me tonight? Could you sleep with me just life we slept last night? (But) could you not let go (this time)?" Ever the coward solely where my heart is concerned, I still didn't look into the face of my (first/only) love.
He could suddenly reach me and lifted my chin with the scratchy pads of his be/well-loved fingers. I raised my glance to fall into his in the way that I would never again allow myself to. His eyes were so warm, mingling anger and love and shame, perhaps. His face was blank, but to me its very reticence spoke secrets aloud. Locking his jaw, I saw him swallow hard before letting out his withheld breath to harshly and/but pulling me too gently into his arms/chest/body, as though/like he too believed I embodied something broken. He petted my hair while he held tight enough to hurt a little, and actually managed to make me feel temporarily better. But (then,) what else is there? What else c/would I dare to expect/hope for?
"I only knew you were going to say that," you said. I heard the subtly shaking tone, despite the flippant/calm words. I felt so drained at what would happen next, luckily this new challenge of yours piqued my old anger just enough to get each next word almost fully out of me. What of these I kept, I already realized that I'd never again shake them.
Speaking a bit too slowly, I felt, I said this time: "I want you to know, that if you don't offer to move out by the end of tonight('s end), I won't stay to the morning." My voice sounded like belting-down hale onto a gray parked-car that lived in our past. So much arbitrary history...arbitrarily betrayed?
"Why would you tell me such a thing?" No longer pretending Mr. Cool-Guy, I noted from somewhere farther away then the mere feet that set us (engulfed and) apart. "You don't have to go anywhere, and why the hell would I!?"
"Stop it," I didn't have to look at him to see him drop his arms at my fatalistic tone. "One way or another, tomorrow we'll be living separately. But please..." I felt/heard vaguely the telltale signature of a voice about to break, even though it was my own. "Could you do something for me tonight? Could you sleep with me just life we slept last night? (But) could you not let go (this time)?" Ever the coward solely where my heart is concerned, I still didn't look into the face of my (first/only) love.
He could suddenly reach me and lifted my chin with the scratchy pads of his be/well-loved fingers. I raised my glance to fall into his in the way that I would never again allow myself to. His eyes were so warm, mingling anger and love and shame, perhaps. His face was blank, but to me its very reticence spoke secrets aloud. Locking his jaw, I saw him swallow hard before letting out his withheld breath to harshly and/but pulling me too gently into his arms/chest/body, as though/like he too believed I embodied something broken. He petted my hair while he held tight enough to hurt a little, and actually managed to make me feel temporarily better. But (then,) what else is there? What else c/would I dare to expect/hope for?
Indie
The sound of the alarm clock not going off woke me. When I sat up realizing this I though I ought to cry, but decided against it and took a shower instead.
In spite of my logical assertion that bathing was best done before one goes to sleep, for well thought through reasons which I'll not go into at present, I find myself stumbling into the stall each morning (and I use the term lightly, as it was five o'clock in the evening at present) and I'm halfway through the process of cleaning myself before it dawns on my that I'm breaking my most reasonable of rules. Still, I'm not ready to give up on myself just yet.
After dressing and such I stood in the middle of my bedroom and tried to figure out what to do on this, my day off. Being that it was too early to safely go on a long walk, I figured I'd save that pleasure for later at two or three in the morning (when even the bad guys slept, I thought) and set off now on a short one that would end with me at Hale's bar.
I didn't drink...or smoke...or experiment with drugs and sex...or with much else in fact, but at least I was easily entertained--so while I didn't often make an appearance among my peers when they were intimidatingly concentrated in one place, every now and then I made an exception so as to witness the surreal transformation that people are capable of. Besides which, I liked to glimpse Hale in her current natural habitat before she succeeded in changing it past what she could stand. Television is exceedingly dull when you've got a good seat for your ever amusing version of real life.
January's End was three and a half miles from the house, so by the time I got there it was probably seven. Hale still had some time before she wanted to take her break, but she separated herself long enough to get me one of the three occupied booths to have for myself. I couldn't tell you how she did this, but it was the same each time. She walked up to our favorite booth with a view of the whole bar, regardless of who sat there (at the moment there was a grave looking couple looking as out of place as I probably did) and said just a few muted words. The woman paled steadily and the man hopped up and pulled his lady friend out of the bar with him. It had taken thirty seconds. Hale turned and grinned at me and I walked over and sat down with a confounded expression spilled onto my face, but I didn't ask. "I'll see you later," she told me before she pushed herself back across the crowded room.
There I sat half in waiting but happy there, a single person in a booth meant for a comfortable six, so that I occupied the only space in the entire room which would allow outstretched arms in just about any direction but back. This was a position I meant to take full advantage of, if only for the sake of rarity, but unfortunately I opened myself up for the following remark, "You look like you could use a hug," shouted at me over the din by a Brooklyn-accented kid, aging before my eyes from somewhere between 24 and 29 on.
I promptly put my arms down and squinted up at him, taking care to cock my head slightly to the right. "I think you're lying."
He draws his eyebrows comically together as if thinking real hard before deciding to ignore me. "I suppose I could help you out," he says like a first-rate creepy-guy, then he presumptuously slides around my booth without the slightest invitation to sit. Though I don't move away for pride, my knee rises of its own volition and lays down beside me, forcing him to stop his progress a foot and a half away.
In spite of my logical assertion that bathing was best done before one goes to sleep, for well thought through reasons which I'll not go into at present, I find myself stumbling into the stall each morning (and I use the term lightly, as it was five o'clock in the evening at present) and I'm halfway through the process of cleaning myself before it dawns on my that I'm breaking my most reasonable of rules. Still, I'm not ready to give up on myself just yet.
After dressing and such I stood in the middle of my bedroom and tried to figure out what to do on this, my day off. Being that it was too early to safely go on a long walk, I figured I'd save that pleasure for later at two or three in the morning (when even the bad guys slept, I thought) and set off now on a short one that would end with me at Hale's bar.
I didn't drink...or smoke...or experiment with drugs and sex...or with much else in fact, but at least I was easily entertained--so while I didn't often make an appearance among my peers when they were intimidatingly concentrated in one place, every now and then I made an exception so as to witness the surreal transformation that people are capable of. Besides which, I liked to glimpse Hale in her current natural habitat before she succeeded in changing it past what she could stand. Television is exceedingly dull when you've got a good seat for your ever amusing version of real life.
January's End was three and a half miles from the house, so by the time I got there it was probably seven. Hale still had some time before she wanted to take her break, but she separated herself long enough to get me one of the three occupied booths to have for myself. I couldn't tell you how she did this, but it was the same each time. She walked up to our favorite booth with a view of the whole bar, regardless of who sat there (at the moment there was a grave looking couple looking as out of place as I probably did) and said just a few muted words. The woman paled steadily and the man hopped up and pulled his lady friend out of the bar with him. It had taken thirty seconds. Hale turned and grinned at me and I walked over and sat down with a confounded expression spilled onto my face, but I didn't ask. "I'll see you later," she told me before she pushed herself back across the crowded room.
There I sat half in waiting but happy there, a single person in a booth meant for a comfortable six, so that I occupied the only space in the entire room which would allow outstretched arms in just about any direction but back. This was a position I meant to take full advantage of, if only for the sake of rarity, but unfortunately I opened myself up for the following remark, "You look like you could use a hug," shouted at me over the din by a Brooklyn-accented kid, aging before my eyes from somewhere between 24 and 29 on.
I promptly put my arms down and squinted up at him, taking care to cock my head slightly to the right. "I think you're lying."
He draws his eyebrows comically together as if thinking real hard before deciding to ignore me. "I suppose I could help you out," he says like a first-rate creepy-guy, then he presumptuously slides around my booth without the slightest invitation to sit. Though I don't move away for pride, my knee rises of its own volition and lays down beside me, forcing him to stop his progress a foot and a half away.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Indie & Hale
"I know what it means to be dead."
I looked at my companion with not a little skepticism and she clarified. "Well, I've never been dead before, obviously, but I completely understand the implications and personally I don't see a problem."
"I know," I replied simply.
"But when I told him that, he shot me anyway. What do you think it means?"
"That depends on where you went when you died."
Hale Larck had just finished telling me about her dream during the night before. In it, she had been debating religion with Jesus Christ over coffee. Apparently, in spite of his presence, she had nobly stuck with her conviction/belief that his existence was unlikely. Raising his hand she had seen that Christ was toting a .356 Magnum. When she called his bluff and told him that her intended afterlife was made up of absolute oblivion, and that she gazed upon the prospect with wistfulness rather than dread, he shot her very dead.
"Of course it does, if I knew that I wouldn't need you to figure it out for me," she scoffed.
"In that case its pretty clear. Your subconscious says its me."
"Who's you?"
"Jesus Christ."
"I don't think it's saying that."
"Now that's what the experts would call denial."
She heaved an unnecessary sigh and indulged me, "Fine Indie, why do think you're Jesus?"
"It's you who--" she stopped me with a withering 'hurry-before-I-get-really-bored' look and I got on with my makeshift interpretation. "Okay, so you're having coffee with "Jesus". We'll, that's all we ever do. We're doing it right now, even! (I hope it's not too hard for you.) And your talking theology: one of our favorite subjects. Plus, he shoots you!"
She cocked an eyebrow at me, "And you do that all the time, huh?"
I pretended to look exasperated. "It's a metaphor, dear girl. I'm constantly putting a hole in the fabric of your reality, know what I mean? The similarities are too many to be denied."
We paused for a moment. Then, "You're not trying very hard," she says to me. And I thought my problem had been trying too hard. I shrugged. "If you want to doubt your one true savior, that's your problem. Besides, I don't buy into dreams as prophetic. You won't go down like that, I bet."
"That's not what I'm worried about..." Hale said with characteristic random mystery. Of course she didn't elaborate.
Shortly thereafter we decided it was time to go. We parted ways until that night when we'd both return to the house we shared rent on, along with three of our other friends.
It was four in the afternoon smack dab in the middle of a misty New York summer. While Hale went to start her bartending shift at a place called 'January's End', I left to return from my intentionally late lunch (consisting of coffee and still more coffee) to my own place of employment.
I used to wear the title of Librarian's Assistant, which basically meant I was a librarian without the proper, if ridiculously excessive, credentials. That was where I'd grown up in an itsy-bitsy town in Louisiana so that it felt less like a dirty government job and more like a community one. When I moved to this silly city though, I found out that government jobs are taken far too seriously. Still possessing an obsession with the scent of old books, I moved to the profit version of the same trade and now work in an independently owned used bookstore by the name of 'Tattered Remnants'. Sometimes we get customers in there just for the meaning behind the title. When we tell them they usually linger awhile, all charmed-like.
I, by the by, am Melinda Parks. My first name reminds me of the color gray for some reason so I try to go by 'Indie instead. I'm drawn to its possibilities: independent; indistinct; indifferent; indelible; in...decisive. My favorite is ????, yet in this I am deceived, for the instant devastation of change is...?!
[I wish for once "I owe my life to you" wouldn't sound so much like a reprimand.]
I looked at my companion with not a little skepticism and she clarified. "Well, I've never been dead before, obviously, but I completely understand the implications and personally I don't see a problem."
"I know," I replied simply.
"But when I told him that, he shot me anyway. What do you think it means?"
"That depends on where you went when you died."
Hale Larck had just finished telling me about her dream during the night before. In it, she had been debating religion with Jesus Christ over coffee. Apparently, in spite of his presence, she had nobly stuck with her conviction/belief that his existence was unlikely. Raising his hand she had seen that Christ was toting a .356 Magnum. When she called his bluff and told him that her intended afterlife was made up of absolute oblivion, and that she gazed upon the prospect with wistfulness rather than dread, he shot her very dead.
"Of course it does, if I knew that I wouldn't need you to figure it out for me," she scoffed.
"In that case its pretty clear. Your subconscious says its me."
"Who's you?"
"Jesus Christ."
"I don't think it's saying that."
"Now that's what the experts would call denial."
She heaved an unnecessary sigh and indulged me, "Fine Indie, why do think you're Jesus?"
"It's you who--" she stopped me with a withering 'hurry-before-I-get-really-bored' look and I got on with my makeshift interpretation. "Okay, so you're having coffee with "Jesus". We'll, that's all we ever do. We're doing it right now, even! (I hope it's not too hard for you.) And your talking theology: one of our favorite subjects. Plus, he shoots you!"
She cocked an eyebrow at me, "And you do that all the time, huh?"
I pretended to look exasperated. "It's a metaphor, dear girl. I'm constantly putting a hole in the fabric of your reality, know what I mean? The similarities are too many to be denied."
We paused for a moment. Then, "You're not trying very hard," she says to me. And I thought my problem had been trying too hard. I shrugged. "If you want to doubt your one true savior, that's your problem. Besides, I don't buy into dreams as prophetic. You won't go down like that, I bet."
"That's not what I'm worried about..." Hale said with characteristic random mystery. Of course she didn't elaborate.
Shortly thereafter we decided it was time to go. We parted ways until that night when we'd both return to the house we shared rent on, along with three of our other friends.
It was four in the afternoon smack dab in the middle of a misty New York summer. While Hale went to start her bartending shift at a place called 'January's End', I left to return from my intentionally late lunch (consisting of coffee and still more coffee) to my own place of employment.
I used to wear the title of Librarian's Assistant, which basically meant I was a librarian without the proper, if ridiculously excessive, credentials. That was where I'd grown up in an itsy-bitsy town in Louisiana so that it felt less like a dirty government job and more like a community one. When I moved to this silly city though, I found out that government jobs are taken far too seriously. Still possessing an obsession with the scent of old books, I moved to the profit version of the same trade and now work in an independently owned used bookstore by the name of 'Tattered Remnants'. Sometimes we get customers in there just for the meaning behind the title. When we tell them they usually linger awhile, all charmed-like.
I, by the by, am Melinda Parks. My first name reminds me of the color gray for some reason so I try to go by 'Indie instead. I'm drawn to its possibilities: independent; indistinct; indifferent; indelible; in...decisive. My favorite is ????, yet in this I am deceived, for the instant devastation of change is...?!
[I wish for once "I owe my life to you" wouldn't sound so much like a reprimand.]
Monday, December 25, 2006
Indie: Is self-deprecation a rejection of self-importance? Or merely an odder form of the same?
This existence playing out for one person, a moment at a time--and also occupied by an awareness of the existence of another. So that every step is like a thought given to those steps of this other, whose heart is beating as surely as your own.
But the other is always wholly absent. His existence like a breath barely noticed, but subtly audible when due attention is spared. And for some reason it is, more often than before... before what?
Existence is not a necessary thing--we are blessed to have it. Do you see this? Can you give me a reason for why you do anything!? I wouldn't accept it anyway.
This other person--illustrative; identical; entirely possible. He is a blanket thrown over the presence of cold in a place that it belongs. Gratification is at odds with appreciation. Why the constant looking around? Is life a decision we can't remember making? [But if existence is defined thus, ought our lives be too?]
It's living inside of your head--and in this way intuiting correctly the extent of the world as limit-unrelated. This is strangely like pointing at things, saying "Look! You see!?" with gratitude & frankness, and a threat behind grinning teeth and eyes--disallowance of pity in the slightest, so inappropriate; misplaced with obscene certainty.
A line does not dictate motion. Rather, it assures us of a beginning or an end. While a circle gives potential to eternity? [People are doing things! All the time, they're doing things!!] Quit pretending that you know what's going on, please.
But the other is always wholly absent. His existence like a breath barely noticed, but subtly audible when due attention is spared. And for some reason it is, more often than before... before what?
Existence is not a necessary thing--we are blessed to have it. Do you see this? Can you give me a reason for why you do anything!? I wouldn't accept it anyway.
This other person--illustrative; identical; entirely possible. He is a blanket thrown over the presence of cold in a place that it belongs. Gratification is at odds with appreciation. Why the constant looking around? Is life a decision we can't remember making? [But if existence is defined thus, ought our lives be too?]
It's living inside of your head--and in this way intuiting correctly the extent of the world as limit-unrelated. This is strangely like pointing at things, saying "Look! You see!?" with gratitude & frankness, and a threat behind grinning teeth and eyes--disallowance of pity in the slightest, so inappropriate; misplaced with obscene certainty.
A line does not dictate motion. Rather, it assures us of a beginning or an end. While a circle gives potential to eternity? [People are doing things! All the time, they're doing things!!] Quit pretending that you know what's going on, please.
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