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?
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Carrie
There were things she didn't understand. Occasionally she labored under the impression that this was not so, but for the most part it went unsaid in her mind and known nonetheless.
Her most recent lapse from the loop of the universe came to her through the guise of her lover. Before that it took on the countenance of a stranger, once removed. And before that there were others, as there are always others.
"Why should I pretend I'm not arrogant? The very fact of it makes a denial damn near impossible. And whatever happened to finding arrogance appealing? I'm not the one changing here. Hey, don't even give me that look. This 'changing is a good thing' stance of yours is brand-fucking new and way too convenient to be taken seriously."
Her reflection looked contrite. But as this pleased her, in the next moment it began to look smug so that she felt ridiculous but pissed off anyway. She left the mirror alone with its victory.
Restless, Carrie asked her co-worker, "Do you consider yourself influenced by the weather?" as she returned from the restroom to the cubicle that they shared.
"Sure, my umbrella's right over there," she gestured wildly at the door before waving Carrie over to her with an impatient jerk-motion of her arm. She evidently didn't notice the younger woman's dissatisfied expression as she pressed on once again about the importance of consistent returns in their line of work, not bothering to explain what they were even doing here, so irrelevant as this small detail had turned out to be. In this room, Carrie found convincing herself that she was still alive to be hardest. Unfortunately, she also spent most of her time here.
Her most recent lapse from the loop of the universe came to her through the guise of her lover. Before that it took on the countenance of a stranger, once removed. And before that there were others, as there are always others.
"Why should I pretend I'm not arrogant? The very fact of it makes a denial damn near impossible. And whatever happened to finding arrogance appealing? I'm not the one changing here. Hey, don't even give me that look. This 'changing is a good thing' stance of yours is brand-fucking new and way too convenient to be taken seriously."
Her reflection looked contrite. But as this pleased her, in the next moment it began to look smug so that she felt ridiculous but pissed off anyway. She left the mirror alone with its victory.
Restless, Carrie asked her co-worker, "Do you consider yourself influenced by the weather?" as she returned from the restroom to the cubicle that they shared.
"Sure, my umbrella's right over there," she gestured wildly at the door before waving Carrie over to her with an impatient jerk-motion of her arm. She evidently didn't notice the younger woman's dissatisfied expression as she pressed on once again about the importance of consistent returns in their line of work, not bothering to explain what they were even doing here, so irrelevant as this small detail had turned out to be. In this room, Carrie found convincing herself that she was still alive to be hardest. Unfortunately, she also spent most of her time here.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Janey
"Not fair, not fair, not fair!" She'd raged against the sofa pillows for fifteen minutes, slamming her tightly closed fists into them until they flew up and dance-popped around like nervous kettle corn. Her voice was nearing ragged by now, but she failed to notice this, at least to the freezing point of cessation. She repeated her mantra (redundant?) in hush and harsh tones, not yelling so much as whispering with a solid force, and her tone was matter-of-fact rather than wounded complaint. So the injustice her words meant to express never got past her lips, and thus stayed within to stagnate and convince her rebellions to press on, avoiding relief at all costs.
But as suddenly as the tantrum had begun, the length of it came to an abrupt end. Janey sat heavily on the much-abused armchair and breathed the stale air in mouthfuls loud and slow. Head held high and with back bent not at all, she peered straight ahead, so that her glance hit incidentally beyond her gray apartment window. It lay upon the bougainvillea in fuchsia bloom, and (just like that,) she needed to be outside.
She remembered the wanting, and immediately after only the being there. Her eyes shuffled around then, locking on image after image, as though they were merely pictures of things that happen, (and not the things themselves/a thing in itself). She came to, (as) it seemed, standing on the steps of the building she lived in but seldom felt like hers, except between the pages of sleep and its absence.
Her whole self, as a sum of so many parts, suddenly felt simultaneously alive, and she drew in the blazing jasmine air through her pores, senses, lungs, as surely as the lowering sun set carefully on (the back of her) pale shoulders. The frantic feeling of loss slamming against her chest like a locked-tight door/window/cage, now soothed down to a frail tap--and while part of her wanted to panic even at the implications of this improvement, a baser knowledge led on by the breathing of her body kept the panic subdued/at bay. She watched her self-visible body meld into the/her surroundings, almost belonging there, and (again) she began to believe in what she saw.
"He wanted to write a song," she said aloud. "That's why I came."
But as suddenly as the tantrum had begun, the length of it came to an abrupt end. Janey sat heavily on the much-abused armchair and breathed the stale air in mouthfuls loud and slow. Head held high and with back bent not at all, she peered straight ahead, so that her glance hit incidentally beyond her gray apartment window. It lay upon the bougainvillea in fuchsia bloom, and (just like that,) she needed to be outside.
She remembered the wanting, and immediately after only the being there. Her eyes shuffled around then, locking on image after image, as though they were merely pictures of things that happen, (and not the things themselves/a thing in itself). She came to, (as) it seemed, standing on the steps of the building she lived in but seldom felt like hers, except between the pages of sleep and its absence.
Her whole self, as a sum of so many parts, suddenly felt simultaneously alive, and she drew in the blazing jasmine air through her pores, senses, lungs, as surely as the lowering sun set carefully on (the back of her) pale shoulders. The frantic feeling of loss slamming against her chest like a locked-tight door/window/cage, now soothed down to a frail tap--and while part of her wanted to panic even at the implications of this improvement, a baser knowledge led on by the breathing of her body kept the panic subdued/at bay. She watched her self-visible body meld into the/her surroundings, almost belonging there, and (again) she began to believe in what she saw.
"He wanted to write a song," she said aloud. "That's why I came."
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
"You ain't saying nothing that I don't already know."
Their faces were like lemon-drops and their eyes watered readily/reality. (Pretty girls make me blush.) I need some kind of structure; some kind of BELIEF. (It's like a kid on a cellphone! It drops things, and bends extravagantly over to collect them again.) This sharpness is in bad taste, I think.
It's the one thing you can't think about, be assured. How fragmented you must be! What sort of alternative would I prefer? Were it that you were here, with the face that you wear--open and full in front of me...then you wouldn't see me with eyes this foggy? My mood wouldn't drip tangibly and rich-viscous with wake. If you were here? You wouldn't know me at all.
Ah, but this doesn't save me from wanting you. I want to taste the flavor your eyes choose for ignorance! I want to listen to you telling me somethingsomething, your voice fluttering on and on in its brevity. What would you look like? Sitting here, with nothing but me for a distraction? I want to count your yawns; follow your drifting glance. Almost, I want you here without me.
[Don't put it past yourself to be here now. Your desires entail your presence. Yes. Practice, then, not abandoning yourself (while you still can see that you are).]
It's the one thing you can't think about, be assured. How fragmented you must be! What sort of alternative would I prefer? Were it that you were here, with the face that you wear--open and full in front of me...then you wouldn't see me with eyes this foggy? My mood wouldn't drip tangibly and rich-viscous with wake. If you were here? You wouldn't know me at all.
Ah, but this doesn't save me from wanting you. I want to taste the flavor your eyes choose for ignorance! I want to listen to you telling me somethingsomething, your voice fluttering on and on in its brevity. What would you look like? Sitting here, with nothing but me for a distraction? I want to count your yawns; follow your drifting glance. Almost, I want you here without me.
[Don't put it past yourself to be here now. Your desires entail your presence. Yes. Practice, then, not abandoning yourself (while you still can see that you are).]
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Ciarra
"Oh my fucking god. Where did it come from?! Why the fuck'd you bring it here?!"
"I found her in the bushes behind the complex! Goddamnit, listen! She's really cold, okay? Fucking--run a bath or something! I can't just let her fucking freeze, you know? Kell(?)... Kell(?), I can't take her home."
"Fuck, Dom!? What do you want me to do about it, huh? Jesus Christ! What if it's dying? What if it's fucking dead already?! A dead fucking baby in my fucking kitchen?!! Oh my god--oh christ..."
"She's not dead, Kell! (Don't worry.) Please. Come on, help me get her into some bathwater. Stay with me here, okay Kell?"
"Fuck. Okay! Okay."
*~*~*
"Ciarra! Girl, where the blazes are you?"
"Shhh," came from beneath the porch that the gray woman was just then standing on. She took the two rickety steps down and onto the pale-colored grass to kneel down breathily.
"Sweetie-pie, what the devil you doin' down there?" she wheezed.
"SHHH. I'm hiding."
This time the woman thought to lower her voice, "Who ya hiding from, Girl?"
"The clouds," the child whispered.
Unprepared for this, she still managed to keep her surprised laugh quiet enough for the girl's sensibilities when the woman responded. "Haha! Hon, the clouds ain't gonna hurt you this time o' year."
Ciarra (the girl) made the face of something scandalized when she looked up at the only other person on the planet. "I know THAT Grandma," she whispered quickly. "We're playing hide 'n' seek!"
"I found her in the bushes behind the complex! Goddamnit, listen! She's really cold, okay? Fucking--run a bath or something! I can't just let her fucking freeze, you know? Kell(?)... Kell(?), I can't take her home."
"Fuck, Dom!? What do you want me to do about it, huh? Jesus Christ! What if it's dying? What if it's fucking dead already?! A dead fucking baby in my fucking kitchen?!! Oh my god--oh christ..."
"She's not dead, Kell! (Don't worry.) Please. Come on, help me get her into some bathwater. Stay with me here, okay Kell?"
"Fuck. Okay! Okay."
*~*~*
"Ciarra! Girl, where the blazes are you?"
"Shhh," came from beneath the porch that the gray woman was just then standing on. She took the two rickety steps down and onto the pale-colored grass to kneel down breathily.
"Sweetie-pie, what the devil you doin' down there?" she wheezed.
"SHHH. I'm hiding."
This time the woman thought to lower her voice, "Who ya hiding from, Girl?"
"The clouds," the child whispered.
Unprepared for this, she still managed to keep her surprised laugh quiet enough for the girl's sensibilities when the woman responded. "Haha! Hon, the clouds ain't gonna hurt you this time o' year."
Ciarra (the girl) made the face of something scandalized when she looked up at the only other person on the planet. "I know THAT Grandma," she whispered quickly. "We're playing hide 'n' seek!"
MysteryGuy?
Working the taps, MYSTERY GUY felt his arms wake up--finally being appreciated beyond their monotonous swaying of the back and forth kind. (Or Hale's line when starts to work again...?)
"You're a distinctual sort of dude, mate. You know what I'm saying?"
I had no idea.
"Absolutely," I said.
The man in the pink hat scoffs for the third time that evening, so that by now I recognized it as an expletive of approval. Luckily there was no one around to see me gloat. I poured Pinky another shot without being asked, good bartender that I am.
Tonight at the bar I saw someone in the midst of a crowd of her friends. Do you know what I mean by that? There were at least a dozen of them, but no matter where she stood she seemed the one surrounded. I keep thinking, 'Does that say something about her? Or does that say something about me?
If it's the latter, I think I'd better grow out of it soon--I can't believe how easy it is to utterly ignore the individuality of seeming pack members.
What's she look like? The better question might be, what doesn't she look like? Or maybe, for an edging of flair, what does she exude? Something like thoughtfulness, I think. Ah! But what does that mean? What next? Something generic--something barely there. Like a patch of sky, painted/allowed in the corner of a ceiling--of a low ceiling, that is.
Anyway, I mean to answer the question, 'Why?' if I can. First things first, she wore a backwards hat, and her eyes narrowed painstakingly with each fixation of her gaze. Absolutely, which is how she seemed to see things.
Maybe that's all it was--a matter of movement. No, but it wouldn't be a case of physical stillness, what with how often she pulled a chosen friend into the crowded room and made her real--even into the crowded room blaring with the dissatisfying music, t-shirt hanging over her shoulders in all the wrong places. She wasn't the only girl grinning either, but it was just as well--I was only curious about hers.
Images of her smiling face watching itself in the mirror for a fleeting moment, and then wilting maybe, they manifested of their own accord by the design of my imagination. I saw her with an inscrutable expression, showing the clothes she would wear that morning. Yawning, and then rechoosing. Would she smile self-deprecating before she did it. Would she get an arbitrary sense of her choices? Of her life, perhaps? And would she keep right on smiling?, I wondered.
Like tonight, though? Why was I wondering about this girl anyway, when each of the other people I saw would have been subjected to the same processes of the days. Why couldn't I seriously care about their expressions, as if they'd be as invisible as my own through my eyes?
Her colors were monochromatic; she was all browns and grays. Cedar-skin, sequoia-hair, and lips and eyes. Shades of sand at midnight ensemble, as if feigning colorlessness. (Almost colorless?) None of this would mean a thing on someone else--I wouldn't even have noticed! How easy it is to get nowhere.
"You're a distinctual sort of dude, mate. You know what I'm saying?"
I had no idea.
"Absolutely," I said.
The man in the pink hat scoffs for the third time that evening, so that by now I recognized it as an expletive of approval. Luckily there was no one around to see me gloat. I poured Pinky another shot without being asked, good bartender that I am.
Tonight at the bar I saw someone in the midst of a crowd of her friends. Do you know what I mean by that? There were at least a dozen of them, but no matter where she stood she seemed the one surrounded. I keep thinking, 'Does that say something about her? Or does that say something about me?
If it's the latter, I think I'd better grow out of it soon--I can't believe how easy it is to utterly ignore the individuality of seeming pack members.
What's she look like? The better question might be, what doesn't she look like? Or maybe, for an edging of flair, what does she exude? Something like thoughtfulness, I think. Ah! But what does that mean? What next? Something generic--something barely there. Like a patch of sky, painted/allowed in the corner of a ceiling--of a low ceiling, that is.
Anyway, I mean to answer the question, 'Why?' if I can. First things first, she wore a backwards hat, and her eyes narrowed painstakingly with each fixation of her gaze. Absolutely, which is how she seemed to see things.
Maybe that's all it was--a matter of movement. No, but it wouldn't be a case of physical stillness, what with how often she pulled a chosen friend into the crowded room and made her real--even into the crowded room blaring with the dissatisfying music, t-shirt hanging over her shoulders in all the wrong places. She wasn't the only girl grinning either, but it was just as well--I was only curious about hers.
Images of her smiling face watching itself in the mirror for a fleeting moment, and then wilting maybe, they manifested of their own accord by the design of my imagination. I saw her with an inscrutable expression, showing the clothes she would wear that morning. Yawning, and then rechoosing. Would she smile self-deprecating before she did it. Would she get an arbitrary sense of her choices? Of her life, perhaps? And would she keep right on smiling?, I wondered.
Like tonight, though? Why was I wondering about this girl anyway, when each of the other people I saw would have been subjected to the same processes of the days. Why couldn't I seriously care about their expressions, as if they'd be as invisible as my own through my eyes?
Her colors were monochromatic; she was all browns and grays. Cedar-skin, sequoia-hair, and lips and eyes. Shades of sand at midnight ensemble, as if feigning colorlessness. (Almost colorless?) None of this would mean a thing on someone else--I wouldn't even have noticed! How easy it is to get nowhere.
Janey
Jane stammered bodily among her things, bracing herself for the sudden wakefulness she still knew to regret. Her chamomile smile fluttered past her lips at the most unexpected of times.
When she awoke she had changed her mind again. Last night's late hour clarity had seduced her into sleep but now the morning had replaced it and she still didn't know what to do. Though she knew what was expected of her and therefore what not to do. [Which was to go at all...?]
Of course the funeral arrangements had been made far in advance and she and her love had played dress rehearsals with their eyes hundreds of times, but she was to be alone for the real thing. How could she have let herself forget this?
The phone rang downstairs to remind her that she'd unplugged the one on the nightstand across the expanse of the bed: his side, the left. She lay staring through that strange space at the quietly sitting handset when the answering machine next to it clicked on to talk to/speak with her in hushed tones, using the voice of her father-in-law.
"Janey... I hope I'm not waking you. Dear...Dolores and I just wanted to check up on you. Please let us know if you decide you want to come with us this afternoon after all. We can pick you up just like nothing and you can come back here with everybody after, if you want to. To eat something...you know. We love you Janey. Give us a call back when you get up, okay?"
She watched as the thing did nothing to commemorate the passing of Adam's voice, it's disappearance going unnoticed, like everything.
She'd only lied to him once when he was alive, and now with his death she found she would make herself a liar just once more. The first time was when she said she'd let him take care of her. This last would be ruining his expectation of her presence at his funeral. She wanted to sleep more but knew it would only generate/materialize people to put/with their hands on her shoulders and arms. She felt on the edge of a decision that wouldn't allow spare time. She didn't know how she could know this unless she knew what she was going to do, but whatever part of her already did wasn't letting on just yet. So she continued her scrutiny of the ceiling but didn't let her eyes weigh themselves down.
Although she now had the choice to let it have its way with her whenever she liked, exhaustion hadn't any real power ever since she had become a person she could no longer relate to. Sleep would always have to wait on her, she couldn't change this now.
She found herself noticing her breath for the first time in 11 hours. It was a shorter kind of the deep breaths and it filled her body with itself, solid enough to cause her left-center ribs to creak in a wince of pain. She allowed herself not to prepare for the end of the next ten minutes. She breathed instead.
When she awoke she had changed her mind again. Last night's late hour clarity had seduced her into sleep but now the morning had replaced it and she still didn't know what to do. Though she knew what was expected of her and therefore what not to do. [Which was to go at all...?]
Of course the funeral arrangements had been made far in advance and she and her love had played dress rehearsals with their eyes hundreds of times, but she was to be alone for the real thing. How could she have let herself forget this?
The phone rang downstairs to remind her that she'd unplugged the one on the nightstand across the expanse of the bed: his side, the left. She lay staring through that strange space at the quietly sitting handset when the answering machine next to it clicked on to talk to/speak with her in hushed tones, using the voice of her father-in-law.
"Janey... I hope I'm not waking you. Dear...Dolores and I just wanted to check up on you. Please let us know if you decide you want to come with us this afternoon after all. We can pick you up just like nothing and you can come back here with everybody after, if you want to. To eat something...you know. We love you Janey. Give us a call back when you get up, okay?"
She watched as the thing did nothing to commemorate the passing of Adam's voice, it's disappearance going unnoticed, like everything.
She'd only lied to him once when he was alive, and now with his death she found she would make herself a liar just once more. The first time was when she said she'd let him take care of her. This last would be ruining his expectation of her presence at his funeral. She wanted to sleep more but knew it would only generate/materialize people to put/with their hands on her shoulders and arms. She felt on the edge of a decision that wouldn't allow spare time. She didn't know how she could know this unless she knew what she was going to do, but whatever part of her already did wasn't letting on just yet. So she continued her scrutiny of the ceiling but didn't let her eyes weigh themselves down.
Although she now had the choice to let it have its way with her whenever she liked, exhaustion hadn't any real power ever since she had become a person she could no longer relate to. Sleep would always have to wait on her, she couldn't change this now.
She found herself noticing her breath for the first time in 11 hours. It was a shorter kind of the deep breaths and it filled her body with itself, solid enough to cause her left-center ribs to creak in a wince of pain. She allowed herself not to prepare for the end of the next ten minutes. She breathed instead.
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