Right Hand Red

They say, in boxing a contender must diligently counter their instinct -- zigging, rather than zagging, ducking rather than dodging... and I wonder, are all fights like that? If Life is one enormous fight, should those ideals be in place, constantly?

Attack when we wish to do nothing other than lick our wounds in a dark, dark hole. Staying awake when our heads are heavy... and not, not, not pressing ten numbers when we'd really, really like to.

Games. We can just never get around them, can we?

If only they all came on boards.

9:50 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

on Excitement

I get excited.

It's probably not the smartest thing I do, but the chest swells, heart races, and the filthy, misbegotten freakshow of a circus rolls into town, regardless. Excitement isn't the most sound plan, because it isn't normal, at least, as far as my meager comprehension of normalcy goes.

You see, dear reader, the excitement pooling in my veins isn't the wide-eyed enthusiasm of child awaiting Santa Claus, rather, more like the tickle in the brain Mengele felt when he disected his first twin. This feeling's toes are already tagged, by its own shrewd criterion.

I know, precisely, how something can be both an alpha and omega. This unchecked excitement of mine is the be all and end all of every flight of fancy with a penis I happen across. The excitement roars into my brain with all the fury and fire of an intergalactic traveller piercing Earth's atmosphere -- where it promptly sets about to finding one of its own kind.

Only, this guy's not exactly the biggest overachiever in the universe, if you know what I mean. He snaps on his bulky spacesuit, kicks over a few stones, puts his hands on the hip-ish section of his body, scans the landscape with a discernable huff, then jumps back into his ride, empty-handed.

Or... (this is what really gets me into trouble)... he does locate a bretheren. How fortunitous is that, eh? After so many miles, fruitless trips and utter contempt at the notion of ever having to wedge into that ridiculous spacesuit again, he is all too happy to clap the back of, and heartily welcome aboard, any being who remotely speaks his lingo.   

I know what you're thinking. "But what about Pod people?" And, "Just because I know enough Spanish to be able to ask for a fork, when dining in Mexico, doesn't mean I can salsa." You're right! That is, precisely, the problem.

A few utterances of the lingo, doesn't neccessarilly mean a soul speaks the lingo.

Case in Point: A previous bundle of excitement met a man from California. Standing in the airport, reality visciously intruding as the moments sounded off, when, ah! There, on the horizon, a bretheren was spotted. The man was a vision of nerves, hope, and decided relief at not spying a hunchback beneath the mass of red hair: Excitement matched.

Which is just what I wanted. What I always want, when there's excitement in the mix. It isn't always present, of course. Which intrigues me, when I find something unexpectedly nice. I'll think, "Oh, gee -- I should've been excited!" In those cases, as I've found recently, no, no, I was correct in not being excited in the first place.  

This isn't about those cases, though. This tangent is in strict regards to the ones I'm excited by. The one I'm excited about.

The one I fear won't be standing in the cinema, with a visible mash of nerves, hope and discernable relief at not spying a hunchback beneath my pinstriped blazer.

Does it matter? Well, probably not.

Would it be nice, though? Well, yes. Yes, I think it would.

But then, I'm always thinking.

1:42 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Greetings from the Crackpipe

Decided to go through a notebook, see if there was anything remotely salvagable.

What Watson Decided: SOMEONE has to make a concerted fucking effort to take notes when they get an idea. I haven't a clue what the hell I was scribbling on about:

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Crunch, crunch

munch, munch.

Kiss a lady,

then down for lunch.

(Was that supposed to be perverted, or a prelude to a cannibalistic tale? Really, it could go either way... )

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     The air turned them red. And so they writhed, in rhythm, their bellies bulging, a thousand little succubi, like worms in a can. He couldn't ignore them though, not now. He'd have to dive in, hands first, with the thoughtful grace they expected.

      His stomach became more gelatinous the more he touched -- weak, but hardly nauseous, too consumed by the notion of their growth to fret over the slippery wiggling at his fingertips. It didn't matter what he did; they would continue to grow. Cells full of rot, pushing into pores, pressing, shoving, until things once healthy fell to the floor, and children pointed and laughed with "leper" on their lips  -- that's how they would grow. Mindlessly. Unrelenting.

--

There are a great many pitfalls of character a person would readily admit to -- a strict diet of frozen, microwavable dinners, fear of spiders, bedpost notches like basketball scores, matricide -- but the true severity of empty pockets never flys from a pauper's tongue.

       "We could watch a movie," the strapping man suggested.

       "Eh, it's a little late to be getting into a movie," chasing the fib with a face feigning boredom.

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2:27 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment