She came in through the door. Small, young, beautiful, elegant as any 20 year old could be. Pushed through the door, fell into his arms, her lips pressed against his, her dress floating away like wisps of smoke on the wind, she melted into him, loving him, desiring him, and hten as soon as she’d appeared she vanished, replaced only by the shallow grope of a hand against the nothingness of his apartment, chopsticks still clutched in his fingers. He opened his eyes again, disappointedly straightening up his position. This was all, he thought ruefully. But, in a small twinge of hopeful silliness, he put the chopsticks in the paper box of Chinese food and set it down on the table, his robe draping around his knees. He strode up to the door, his hand hovering over the doorknob, and then with a quick yank, pulled it open.
Of course, she was not there. Disappointed, he closed the door again. turning back to his kitchen table, he flipped through the newspaper, his eye pawing over where he’d cut out the coupon for Chinese food that he was now eating.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Pregnancy
Pee.
Shake
Wait.
She counted out the seconds. Her periods had stopped, this much she knew. A month, and they had disappeared. Now the scattered husks of empty pregnancy test boxes laid scattered on her bed, pink and purple labels done up in elegant florid cursive with exclamation marks joyously enthusing ‘Pregnancy!’ all along the outside. They were the only place where joy was to be found in the room. The egg timer dinged, the small plastic dial clicking into place with the cheap plastic click of objects purchased under a median price range. She ran over to the sink and picked up the small plastic stick.
It wasn’t there yet. But slowly, surely, with the inevitable creeping of a glacier the pink dots slowly filled in. Dot, dot, dot, a dot off of the central minus sign, and then another, until finally the entire symbol was filled in: a plus. She turned the stick over in her hands, rotating the small cylinder with her thumb and forefingers. Her reflection looked up at her in the mirror, stared back with worried, sallow eyes, and then turned towards the door and moved back into her bedroom. She fell into the cold, stiff sheets of her comforter, the soft bounce of the mattress pushing her up a few inches before she finally settled down onto the bed. She stared blankly at the ceiling, thoughts swirling through her head. Over on the bedstand, her cellphone sounded out a small rattle as it vibrated on the table. She picked it up and took a look at what it said. “WELL?” it asked in large block letters. It was her sister. She flipped the phone open to the keypad, then flipped it close again, thumbing her fingers over the cold plasticine sheen of the touchscreen.
She let her arms fall to her sides and her phone dropped limply out of her hand, careening gently off the side of her bed and falling to the floor with a muted clatter. Well she thought. Her expression changed, and then she thought it again, a heavier tone in her mind, Well. She stared up at the blank whiteness of her ceiling, the faint up-side down mushroom shape of her ceiling lamp and lost herself into the emptiness, the cold muted pastels of the grey afternoon sky, the dank sodden rain that poured down around her as she imagined her room filling up with water until she swam around in the depths, swimming and drowning like a fish. She ran her fingers over her stomach, running her fingers underneath her shirt, feeling up and down along the contours of her navel. How odd, she thought to herself. She continued staring at the upside-down mushroom. It had as many answers as she did, she thought to herself ruefully. She didn’t want to get up. So for a few more minutes, she continued staring at the ceiling, the soft pastel greys of the overcast sky filtering softly through her window.
Shake
Wait.
She counted out the seconds. Her periods had stopped, this much she knew. A month, and they had disappeared. Now the scattered husks of empty pregnancy test boxes laid scattered on her bed, pink and purple labels done up in elegant florid cursive with exclamation marks joyously enthusing ‘Pregnancy!’ all along the outside. They were the only place where joy was to be found in the room. The egg timer dinged, the small plastic dial clicking into place with the cheap plastic click of objects purchased under a median price range. She ran over to the sink and picked up the small plastic stick.
It wasn’t there yet. But slowly, surely, with the inevitable creeping of a glacier the pink dots slowly filled in. Dot, dot, dot, a dot off of the central minus sign, and then another, until finally the entire symbol was filled in: a plus. She turned the stick over in her hands, rotating the small cylinder with her thumb and forefingers. Her reflection looked up at her in the mirror, stared back with worried, sallow eyes, and then turned towards the door and moved back into her bedroom. She fell into the cold, stiff sheets of her comforter, the soft bounce of the mattress pushing her up a few inches before she finally settled down onto the bed. She stared blankly at the ceiling, thoughts swirling through her head. Over on the bedstand, her cellphone sounded out a small rattle as it vibrated on the table. She picked it up and took a look at what it said. “WELL?” it asked in large block letters. It was her sister. She flipped the phone open to the keypad, then flipped it close again, thumbing her fingers over the cold plasticine sheen of the touchscreen.
She let her arms fall to her sides and her phone dropped limply out of her hand, careening gently off the side of her bed and falling to the floor with a muted clatter. Well she thought. Her expression changed, and then she thought it again, a heavier tone in her mind, Well. She stared up at the blank whiteness of her ceiling, the faint up-side down mushroom shape of her ceiling lamp and lost herself into the emptiness, the cold muted pastels of the grey afternoon sky, the dank sodden rain that poured down around her as she imagined her room filling up with water until she swam around in the depths, swimming and drowning like a fish. She ran her fingers over her stomach, running her fingers underneath her shirt, feeling up and down along the contours of her navel. How odd, she thought to herself. She continued staring at the upside-down mushroom. It had as many answers as she did, she thought to herself ruefully. She didn’t want to get up. So for a few more minutes, she continued staring at the ceiling, the soft pastel greys of the overcast sky filtering softly through her window.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Suicide Fantasy
She wiped her tears away, soft sleeves brushing roughly against the saline residue on her skin. A few gasps, deeper breathes, and her breathing calmed down. And then, silence, tear streaked eyes and reddened cheaks, tired and exausted she sat on the couch, a slump in her shoulders and a gun in her hand. She imagined it, the motion lancing through h her mind. The cool, comforting cold of the gun against her chin.
She pressed the gun into her chin.
The cool hard click of the hammer back against the chamber.
The hammer clicked back
And the final, quick burst of hot from the muzzle as the bullet rushed through her chin, exiting through her brain.
Her finger moved, hesistated, lingered upon the trigger, waiting it, willing it, hesitating upon the image.
The bullet entered through her chin, hot gases of the bullet gunpowder charring and burning her skin as the bullet passed through her skin. Small specks of burning bits of gunpowder impacted into the skin under her jaw, leaving small sizzling craters in her skin, singing hairs and moving outwards in small little waves as the gunpowder hit her skin like meteorites impacting the surface of the moon. The bullet traveled through the roof of her mouth, shattering the bone and sending it spinning out into a radial pattern, a pirouette of bone fragments as they spun with peculiar synchronicity through the air, bouncing off her tongue and finally embedding into her cheeks. The bullet passed through her nasal cavity, shattering the blood vessels inside and causing blood to stream from her nose as though she’d had the world’s worst case of nosebleeds that a person could ever see. It passed her eyes, impacting the nerve and sending a quick jolt of yellow to her vision, her last thought before she would die would be yellow: yellow: everything would be yellow. And then the bullet touched the brain.
It took addition first. One two three four five, add two numbers together to make another number. Cindy, what is the answer? She stared blankly at her teacher, she didn’t know. She couldn’t add. Three millimeters up. She was four, she was learning to ride a tricycle, she ran into a rock and fell over and skinned her knee. Her dad ran over and carried her back to the house, and then the house disappeared, and her dad disappeared, the wound disappeared, and then it was gone. Four millimeters up. Blood rushed into the cavity the bullet left in its wake, short circuiting the neurons left behind, killing them off in a wave of acidic blood. A wave of blood stormed in towards her brain cavities, and her brain sent off another neuron. 7th grade, the school fair. Little Jimmy Parkson was showing her how to shoot a gun. She paid 5 dollars, shot three times, and missed every time. He gave her his duck. She kept it until it fell apart, which was three months after that.
The bullet ripped through her brain, a trail of charred and blackened neurons, sparking in the air behind it. a millimeter before the skull it touched it, pushed through, and the last neuron made it way into her consciousness. It was three weeks ago, two weeks ago, a day. He had gone, in cruel and unhappy ways he had gone and left her alone. And there had been a gun, a bullet, the cool embrace of a stainless steel muzzle pressed up hard against here vein. And then there had been a release, a quick burst of gas, and then it had disappeared.
The bullet exited through her brain, a small star of bone erupting out around it as the bullet sailed away from the earthy confines of her hair, long lashes of black hair reaching up to the ongoing rocketship, flying up into the air upon the waves of dreams, emotions, the great tunneling rocket that had made its way through the earth and off into space. And behind it behind, it all there was she, she a girl, she a person, it a gun, and this a moment.
She pressed the gun into her chin.
The cool hard click of the hammer back against the chamber.
The hammer clicked back
And the final, quick burst of hot from the muzzle as the bullet rushed through her chin, exiting through her brain.
Her finger moved, hesistated, lingered upon the trigger, waiting it, willing it, hesitating upon the image.
The bullet entered through her chin, hot gases of the bullet gunpowder charring and burning her skin as the bullet passed through her skin. Small specks of burning bits of gunpowder impacted into the skin under her jaw, leaving small sizzling craters in her skin, singing hairs and moving outwards in small little waves as the gunpowder hit her skin like meteorites impacting the surface of the moon. The bullet traveled through the roof of her mouth, shattering the bone and sending it spinning out into a radial pattern, a pirouette of bone fragments as they spun with peculiar synchronicity through the air, bouncing off her tongue and finally embedding into her cheeks. The bullet passed through her nasal cavity, shattering the blood vessels inside and causing blood to stream from her nose as though she’d had the world’s worst case of nosebleeds that a person could ever see. It passed her eyes, impacting the nerve and sending a quick jolt of yellow to her vision, her last thought before she would die would be yellow: yellow: everything would be yellow. And then the bullet touched the brain.
It took addition first. One two three four five, add two numbers together to make another number. Cindy, what is the answer? She stared blankly at her teacher, she didn’t know. She couldn’t add. Three millimeters up. She was four, she was learning to ride a tricycle, she ran into a rock and fell over and skinned her knee. Her dad ran over and carried her back to the house, and then the house disappeared, and her dad disappeared, the wound disappeared, and then it was gone. Four millimeters up. Blood rushed into the cavity the bullet left in its wake, short circuiting the neurons left behind, killing them off in a wave of acidic blood. A wave of blood stormed in towards her brain cavities, and her brain sent off another neuron. 7th grade, the school fair. Little Jimmy Parkson was showing her how to shoot a gun. She paid 5 dollars, shot three times, and missed every time. He gave her his duck. She kept it until it fell apart, which was three months after that.
The bullet ripped through her brain, a trail of charred and blackened neurons, sparking in the air behind it. a millimeter before the skull it touched it, pushed through, and the last neuron made it way into her consciousness. It was three weeks ago, two weeks ago, a day. He had gone, in cruel and unhappy ways he had gone and left her alone. And there had been a gun, a bullet, the cool embrace of a stainless steel muzzle pressed up hard against here vein. And then there had been a release, a quick burst of gas, and then it had disappeared.
The bullet exited through her brain, a small star of bone erupting out around it as the bullet sailed away from the earthy confines of her hair, long lashes of black hair reaching up to the ongoing rocketship, flying up into the air upon the waves of dreams, emotions, the great tunneling rocket that had made its way through the earth and off into space. And behind it behind, it all there was she, she a girl, she a person, it a gun, and this a moment.
Bodyworks
He was in love with her, the physical immediacy of her. How she felt, the soft plumbing curves of her body, her stomach, her breasts, the way his neck filmed up slightly when she breathed on him in the morning, the slight bitter tang of her breath when she didn’t brush. Eyebrows, plucked infrequently, odd and half-grown in, penciled infrequently still. Stray flakes of eyliner that flaked off onto the pale light of morning pillows. I was in love with her. I still was. I loved everything about her. Except for the things that I didn’t.
But girl, love, darling, madame, dear, she who I loved. Let it never be said that I did not love you completely, every aspect of who you were, every nook and cranny, fold and follicle, lash and lingering touch, let it never be said that I did not love it at all, all of you, and all of it. Never let it be said you are not beautiful.
now just to pin down this miserable voyeurism thing for the story.
But girl, love, darling, madame, dear, she who I loved. Let it never be said that I did not love you completely, every aspect of who you were, every nook and cranny, fold and follicle, lash and lingering touch, let it never be said that I did not love it at all, all of you, and all of it. Never let it be said you are not beautiful.
now just to pin down this miserable voyeurism thing for the story.
Dogs
We are old dogs, lost, forgotten, old wanderers who linger around old places we used to go to and dream about old girls who used to love us.
Old souls who wander around the old places of the world where once people, lovers, the young hung, hanged, lived, loved, lingered listlessly in the lilting light of lost sounds and moments hung on a string.
We forget everything we ever knew except for the people who used to know us or we dreamed we knew them.
We miss them.
Old souls who wander around the old places of the world where once people, lovers, the young hung, hanged, lived, loved, lingered listlessly in the lilting light of lost sounds and moments hung on a string.
We forget everything we ever knew except for the people who used to know us or we dreamed we knew them.
We miss them.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Days like these
Days like these you think about threading your fingers all the way through to the back of your skull, protruding out the base of your spine.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Community
I aimagine a community. Small and disparate like the corners of the world, bundled together into a knotted seam. They played out like colors on a television sitcom, representations of the archetypes of jung all bundled up into a location. The thief, the sage, the girl, the boy, I was the boy, the girl was small, slender, parted bangs that split off to the left side of her cheek. I was in love with her.
We played archetypes and beehives, laughed at the stereotypical nature of our existence and then lost ourselves in living, laughing, and figuring out the basics of who we were, how we were constructed and how our arms came apart at the wrists, unspooling into gigantic reams of paper.
I loved her and then she left, floating off into the winds blowing away with the capricious spirit of my imagination leaving me only with the various scraps of paper that scattered around me like the autumn leaves. I missed her. and the sage, and the trickster and the archetypes that'd laughed and poked ironically at their stereotypicalness, then disappeared into the wind.
I miss her, the Girl.
We played archetypes and beehives, laughed at the stereotypical nature of our existence and then lost ourselves in living, laughing, and figuring out the basics of who we were, how we were constructed and how our arms came apart at the wrists, unspooling into gigantic reams of paper.
I loved her and then she left, floating off into the winds blowing away with the capricious spirit of my imagination leaving me only with the various scraps of paper that scattered around me like the autumn leaves. I missed her. and the sage, and the trickster and the archetypes that'd laughed and poked ironically at their stereotypicalness, then disappeared into the wind.
I miss her, the Girl.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
We are too busy.
On average the American worker works more hours than any other worker in a first-world nation. While there are many reasons for this, one of the major transformations of the social dynamic is that life has shifted from the family to the workplace, to life outside the workplace to entirely within the workplace.
You are your job, your job is you, and most likely you will find all your SOs at your job or related in some way to your job.
Now as for me that means that unemployed me who has been unemployed for almost ever, this means that well, things don't stay samelike.
Well I pulled this up because my friend works. A lot. She's constantly scheduled, poorly paid, but in this economy, it's a job. But, ionno. People are gone more. I stay home and write, but i'm mostly alone. Yes I'm a self-centered narcissistic little twat. But,
I forget people have lives outside reading and commenting on my story
You are your job, your job is you, and most likely you will find all your SOs at your job or related in some way to your job.
Now as for me that means that unemployed me who has been unemployed for almost ever, this means that well, things don't stay samelike.
Well I pulled this up because my friend works. A lot. She's constantly scheduled, poorly paid, but in this economy, it's a job. But, ionno. People are gone more. I stay home and write, but i'm mostly alone. Yes I'm a self-centered narcissistic little twat. But,
I forget people have lives outside reading and commenting on my story
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Adventureland.
I'm a very big fan of this movie. It's beautifully choreographed, it's sweet, sentimental, the main character could almost be my clone, and the performances are awesome.
Carnivals are some of the best places to photograph ever because you have multiple light sources and so much to do with wide angle lenses to achieve the movie soft lighting effect with blurred out lights.
With James and Em, you feel this performance. Kristen Stewart is a good actress given the right role, and this is her right role, among one of many should she choose wisely in the future.
Heady nuances in the movment of her hands, a distinctly jewish aspect to various elemnts of her character. Jesse eisenberg mixes it up too as someone who is simultaneously very intellectual and nerdy but comfortable in his own skin, a degree of jockish cocky bravado in his physical perforamnce. James is smart, but he's nowhere near as unrelastically cartoonishly awkward as is Michael Cera's usual demeanor which at this point has become almost unbearable to watch. Think of Michael Cera's character, except done well.
This is a movie about people who kow their lots in life, who act like adults and individuals who make decisions based on their personalities and not genre conventions or anything else. The performances by Eisenberg and Stewart in particular are so absorbing they might as well be a stylized documentary. Stewart's lines falter at times, but a compelling performance makes this as good as any movie ofits ilk can ever be.
It shares the spirits and hopes and dreams and demeanor of its main character, soft, sweet, intelligently crafted, and fableistic, but only in the best way possible.
This is the cheap and tawdry world of our memory, but how we rememeber it, how it was beautiful to us.
So yes, I'll have no shame in pulling up this movie to watch James and Em falling in love time and time over again. It might be wish fulfillment, but. I don't feel like i need to make an apology for that.
Carnivals are some of the best places to photograph ever because you have multiple light sources and so much to do with wide angle lenses to achieve the movie soft lighting effect with blurred out lights.
With James and Em, you feel this performance. Kristen Stewart is a good actress given the right role, and this is her right role, among one of many should she choose wisely in the future.
Heady nuances in the movment of her hands, a distinctly jewish aspect to various elemnts of her character. Jesse eisenberg mixes it up too as someone who is simultaneously very intellectual and nerdy but comfortable in his own skin, a degree of jockish cocky bravado in his physical perforamnce. James is smart, but he's nowhere near as unrelastically cartoonishly awkward as is Michael Cera's usual demeanor which at this point has become almost unbearable to watch. Think of Michael Cera's character, except done well.
This is a movie about people who kow their lots in life, who act like adults and individuals who make decisions based on their personalities and not genre conventions or anything else. The performances by Eisenberg and Stewart in particular are so absorbing they might as well be a stylized documentary. Stewart's lines falter at times, but a compelling performance makes this as good as any movie ofits ilk can ever be.
It shares the spirits and hopes and dreams and demeanor of its main character, soft, sweet, intelligently crafted, and fableistic, but only in the best way possible.
This is the cheap and tawdry world of our memory, but how we rememeber it, how it was beautiful to us.
So yes, I'll have no shame in pulling up this movie to watch James and Em falling in love time and time over again. It might be wish fulfillment, but. I don't feel like i need to make an apology for that.
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