After . . . Final Revision
Current mood: Spent.

   So, I just wrote this detailed description of the edits I made here, and pasted the story in, only so Myspace could take a shit all over it and let me do it all over. Jesus fuck.
   Anyway, thank you to those of you (especially Syd and Brytt) who made editorial suggestions; you'll notice that I heeded many of them. I found other little annoyances which I fixed. It seemed I was obsessed with the word "only." I also had the woman fall asleep with a lit cigarette at the end. No good. 
   Anyway, this is how it's going out, for better or for worse, till death do us part. Also, I'll let you in on a bit of news that I'm pretty excited about: I will be rewriting this story as a script for a play, which I will co-direct with the talented theater-maven, McKenzi. I think this will work beautifully on stage. I'm a pretty big fan of uncomfortable silences in large groups of people. I'll keep you all updated there. Thanks for the feedback, everyone, I truly appreciate it.

After

By: Justin McMahon

He kissed her softly on her neck, just under her jaw. The thin layer of stubble on his cheek whispered against her skin, making her laugh a little, in spite of herself. Then he pulled away, rolled over, left her. She always felt both ecstatic and empty in equal measure when a man left her that way. It was almost as if she were being robbed of something. After such closeness, to so quickly lose what had filled her; it made her feel like crying even while she shivered in the aftermath of her pleasure.

He leaned over her, reaching toward the nightstand on her side of the bed . . . well, the bed was his, and she knew her place in it was temporary. Still, she took a little guilty comfort in thinking of it as her side. He grabbed the cigarettes, the lighter and the empty bottle of wine from the nightstand. The hair on his chest brushed against her nipples. They hardened instantly, and a warm sensation started there, then moved down into her belly, where it waited for life-giving oxygen. She wanted him again, but knew he would not want her again.

It was always that way. He had just enough for her to satisfy his most basic needs. She knew it wasn't because he was selfish, or not entirely; he was preoccupied, only that. His attentions were not for her. They were merely convenience, and had little to do with comfort, and less to do with love.

Yet, she loved him. Or thought she did.

He shook two cigarettes from the pack, stuck them in his mouth and lit them. He handed one to her, and she loved the quick touch of his fingers on hers. And hated that she loved it.

He took a deep drag and tapped ashes into the empty wine bottle as he exhaled.

His room was nearly barren. Almost lifeless. There was just the bed (a twin with only a single white blanket) and the nightstands on either side. The arrangement might be an obscene, yet accurate metaphor for his depth of feeling in this place.

There was a large window opposite the bed, which offered a spectacular view of the west shore of Lake Marian . . . but he always kept the shades drawn.

His clothes hung, neat and sterile, in the walk-in closet, logically, so that he could easily access whatever garment he needed. Jackets on the far left, t-shirts on the far right, everything else in order: slacks, jeans, shorts, sweaters, button-downs, turtle necks. All solid, cold colors: black, blue, white, khaki. His footwear stood sentry on the floor beneath the clothes, also in order: boots, dress shoes, tennies, sandals, slippers.

The only decoration in the room was a rose in a thin, crystal vase, atop the nightstand which would be on his side of the bed if he chose to share it. The rose was long dead. It had once been red, but was now almost black. She guessed it meant something to him, maybe even something profound. She didn't care though. The flower was dead. It would never smell sweetly, or dazzle the eyes . . . though its thorns could still draw blood.

They smoked in silence for a time.

She went to draw the blanket over her, but he stopped her gently, yet firmly, with his hand on hers.

"No," he said. "I like seeing you."

And she liked hearing that. This was how it went. It was almost a torture. She always started to feel uncomfortable in her nakedness, vulnerable, unsafe. He preferred her that way.

His eyes wandered over her body, not hungry, simply curious, speculative, as if he were looking at a place he'd been before but couldn't remember where or when.

When he had seen his fill, he looked back at the window. Beyond the drawn curtains was such beauty; perhaps his memory of that beauty was better to him than the real thing.

They were silent again for a time. The only sounds in the room were the slow, easy breaths of two spent lovers, the tiny crackle of the burning cigarettes, the minute ticking of the second hand on his watch.

She reached over and dropped her cigarette butt into the wine bottle, where it hissed and sputtered in the last few drops of wine at the bottom. Smoke whispered up from the neck of the bottle.

"Thank you, Michael," she said.

"For what?" he asked. He did not look at her, but stared at the drawn curtains, perhaps already knowing what he would see beyond them: the sky starting to burn orange as the sun sank behind the pines, the reflection captured on the still water of Lake Marian, like an oil painting.

"For . . . filling me up," she said. And she giggled, knowing how he would take that. Against her will, her mind added, yet leaving me empty.

"That's almost obscene," he said, and dropped his own cigarette butt into the wine bottle.

She rolled over on her side and ran a hand down Michael's face, relishing the rough masculinity of him. She gently tried pulling his face toward hers, but he was obstinate. She leaned closer and kissed his cheek. He closed his eyes. She rolled over onto her back again, again far too aware of her nakedness.

Michael opened his eyes and shook two more cigarettes out of the pack. He lit them, and handed one to her. She didn't feel like smoking again, but she took the cigarette, and watched the purple ribbons of smoke, rising, then disappearing.

She wondered what he was thinking. She reached between his legs and caressed him there, knowing he would jump at her touch, and feeling comfortable in that knowledge. It was all she knew of him. Whatever went on behind his gray eyes, she knew not. She recalled a creative writing professor in her sophomore year of college. "Write what you know," he'd said. "It is the simplest and most effective rule I can teach you." And so she wrote what she knew.

Michael jumped at her touch, tensed, then relaxed again as he grew accustomed to it.

They smoked in silence.

"Will you always love her?" she asked suddenly, without knowing she was going to. His eyes widened, almost imperceptibly. So maybe she did know a little of his mind, at that. Maybe she did.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, but she did not answer. After awhile, he answered her question: "Yeah. Probably I will."

"Does it feel the way love is supposed to?" she asked him.

He sighed.

"I don't know how love is supposed to feel," he said. "I only know that it's supposed to feel."

"And what comes after?" she asked.

"After love?"

"Yes, after love."

He took a drag on his cigarette, and dropped it, half-smoked, into the wine bottle.

"Nothing," he said. "There is no after."

"I guess you're right," she said.

He must have heard something in her voice other than her words, because he finally looked at her. Actually saw her. She tried to show more courage than she felt. She saw concern in his eyes, but it was distant. The way one might be concerned for a rabbit trying to cross a busy street.

"I love you, you know," she said. "Doesn't that count for anything?"

She looked down as she said it, wanting to see his reaction, but afraid to.

He was quiet for a long time.

Finally he said, "it ought to."

She did look up then, and saw that tears were swimming in his eyes.

But they did not fall.

And they were not for her.

She laughed, bitterly, and rolled over onto her side, away from him.

Michael reached over her and plucked the almost spent cigarette from her fingers. He dropped it in the wine bottle, and placed the bottle on the nightstand. Then he rolled over onto his side next to her, his body against hers, empty comfort. He put his arm around her and nestled his face between her neck and shoulder and breathed in deeply.

Write what you know, she thought.

She took his hand and placed it on her breast.

"I can't do this anymore, Michael."

"I know," he said. His breath tickled her neck, made her shiver a little. "I'm sorry."

After awhile, they slept.

2:15 PM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

After . . . Revised.
Current mood: creative

    Alright . . . I've revised this somewhat, and I'd really like to know what you all think. I'm going to submit this for publication, and I have to submit it before the 31st. I didn't change much. I took the unlikelihood of the "watering the dead rose" bit and tried to make it more believable. I changed a couple words around here and there. There was one point where I used the word "cigarette" three times in two short paragraphs; another time when I used the word "softly" twice in two short paragraphs. I altered the "weak" sentence. That's about it. I didn't bother reformatting for Myspace, so there are double-spaces betweene each paragraph. Deal.  

After

By: Justin McMahon

He kissed her softly on her neck, just under her jaw. The thin layer of stubble on his cheek whispered against her skin, making her laugh a little, in spite of herself. Then he pulled away, rolled over, left her. She always felt both ecstatic and empty in equal measure when a man left her that way. It was almost as if she were being robbed of something. After such closeness, to so quickly lose what had filled her; it made her feel like crying even while she shivered in the aftermath of her pleasure.

He leaned over her, reaching toward the nightstand on her side of the bed . . . well, the bed was his, and she knew her place in it was temporary; still, she took a little guilty comfort in thinking of it as her side. He grabbed the cigarettes, the lighter and the empty bottle of wine from the nightstand. The hair on his chest brushed against her nipples. They hardened instantly, and a warm sensation started there, then moved down into her belly, where it waited for life-giving oxygen. She wanted him again, but knew he would not want her again.

It was always that way. He had only enough for her to satisfy his most basic needs. She knew it wasn't because he was selfish, or not entirely; he was preoccupied, only that. His attentions were not for her. They were merely convenience, and had little to do with comfort, and less to do with love.

Yet, she loved him. Or thought she did.

He shook two cigarettes from the pack, stuck them in his mouth and lit them. He handed one to her, and she loved the quick touch of his fingers on hers as he passed the cigarette. And hated that she loved it.

He took a deep drag and tapped ashes into the empty wine bottle as he exhaled.

His room was nearly barren. Almost lifeless. There was only the bed (a twin with only a single white blanket) and the nightstands on either side; the arrangement might be an obscene, yet accurate metaphor for his depth of feeling in this place.

There was a large window opposite the bed, which offered a spectacular view of the west shore of Lake Marian . . . but he always kept the shades drawn.

His clothes hung, neat and sterile, in the walk-in closet, hung logically, so that he could easily access whatever garment he needed: jackets on the far left, t-shirts on the far right, everything else in order; slacks, jeans, shorts, sweaters, button-downs, turtle necks. All solid, cold colors; black, blue, white, khaki. His footwear stood sentry on the floor beneath the clothes, also in order; boots, dress shoes, tennies, sandals, slippers.

The only decoration in the room was a rose in a thin, crystal vase, atop the nightstand which would be on his side of the bed if he chose to share it. The rose was long dead; it had once been red, but was now almost black. Still, he watered it regularly. As a result, the bottom of the stem was beginning to rot and liquefy. She guessed it meant something to him, maybe even something profound. She didn't care though. The flower was dead. It would never smell sweetly, or dazzle the eyes . . . though its thorns could still draw blood.

They smoked in silence for a time.

She went to draw the blanket over her, but he stopped her gently, yet firmly, with his hand on hers.

"No," he said. "I like seeing you."

And she liked hearing that. This was how it went. It was almost a torture. She always started to feel uncomfortable in her nakedness, vulnerable, unsafe. He preferred her that way.

His eyes wandered over her body, not hungry, only curious, speculative, as if he were looking at a place he'd been before but couldn't remember where or when. His eyes never met hers, though.

When his eyes had seen their fill, he looked back at the window. Beyond the drawn curtains was such beauty; perhaps his memory of that beauty was better to him than the real thing.

They were silent again for a time. The only sounds in the room were the deep, easy breaths of two spent lovers, the tiny crackle of the burning cigarettes, the minute ticking of the second hand on his watch.

She reached over and dropped her cigarette butt into the wine bottle, where it hissed and sputtered. Smoke whispered up from the neck of the bottle.

"Thank you, Michael," she said.

"For what?" he asked. He did not look at her, but only stared at the drawn curtains, perhaps already knowing what he would see: the sky starting to burn orange as the sun sank behind the pines, the reflection captured on the still water of Lake Marian, like an oil painting.

"For . . . filling me up," she said. And she giggled, knowing how he would take that. Against her will, her mind added, yet leaving me empty.

"That's almost obscene," he said.

She rolled over on her side and ran a hand down Michael's face, relishing the rough masculinity of him. She gently tried pulling his face toward hers, but he was softly obstinate. She leaned closer and kissed his cheek. He closed his eyes. She rolled over onto her back again, again far too aware of her nakedness.

Michael opened his eyes and shook two more cigarettes out of the pack. He lit them, and handed one to her. She didn't feel like smoking again, but she took the cigarette, and only watched the purple ribbons of smoke, rising, then disappearing.

She wondered what he was thinking. She reached between his legs and caressed him there, knowing he would jump at her touch, and feeling comfortable in that knowledge. It was all she knew of him. Whatever went on behind his gray eyes, she knew not. She recalled a creative writing professor in her sophomore year of college. "Write what you know," he'd said. "It is the simplest and most effective rule I can teach you." And so she wrote what she knew.

Michael jumped at her touch, tensed, then relaxed again as he grew accustomed to it.

They smoked in silence.

"Will you always love her?" she asked suddenly, without knowing she was going to. His eyes widened, almost imperceptibly. So maybe she did know a little of his mind, at that. Maybe she did.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, but she did not answer. After awhile, he answered her question: "Yeah. Probably I will."

"Does it feel the way love is supposed to?" she asked him.

He sighed.

"I don't know how love is supposed to feel," he said. "I only know that it's supposed to feel."

"And what comes after?" she asked.

"After love?"

"Yes, after love."

He took a drag on his cigarette, and dropped it, half-smoked, into the wine bottle.

"Nothing," he said. "There is no after."

"I guess you're right," she said.

He must have heard something in her voice other than her words, because he finally looked at her. Actually saw her. She tried to show more courage than she felt. She saw concern in his eyes, but it was a distant concern. The way one might be concerned for a rabbit trying to cross a busy street.

"I love you, you know," she said. "Doesn't that count for anything?"

She looked down as she said it, wanting to see his reaction, but afraid to.

He was quiet for a long time.

Finally he said, "it ought to."

She did look up then, and saw that tears were swimming in his eyes.

But they did not fall.

And they were not for her.

She laughed, bitterly, and rolled over onto her side, away from him.

Michael rolled over onto his side next to her, his body against hers, empty comfort. He put his arm around her and nestled his face between her neck and shoulder and breathed in deeply.

Write what you know, she thought.

She took his hand and placed it on her breast.

"I can't do this anymore, Michael."

"I know," he said. His breath tickled her neck, made her shiver a little. "I'm sorry."

After awhile, they slept.

Currently reading : Lady Chatterley's Lover (Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition) By D. H. Lawrence

10:19 AM - 7 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

A Bedtime Story . . . For Real.
Current mood: Emotionally Unavailable

Here's a little story I just wrote. It's first-draft, of course. You guys always get the raw material. It's the shortest story I've ever written. I don't suppose it's short enough to be considered flash fiction, but it feels that way to me. Enjoy:

After

By: Justin McMahon

   He kissed her softly on her neck, just under her jaw. The thin layer of stubble on his cheek whispered against her skin, making her laugh a little, in spite of herself. Then he pulled away, rolled over, left her. She always felt both ecstatic and empty in equal measure when a man left her that way. It was almost as if she were being robbed of something. After such closeness, to so quickly lose what had filled her; it made her feel like crying even while she shivered in the aftermath of her pleasure.
   He leaned over her, reaching toward the nightstand on her side of the bed—well . . . the bed was his, and she knew her place in it was temporary; still, she took a little guilty comfort in thinking of it as her side. He grabbed the cigarettes, the lighter and the empty bottle of wine from the nightstand. The hair on his chest brushed against her nipples. They hardened instantly, and a warm sensation started there, then moved down into her belly, where it waited for life-giving oxygen. She wanted him again, but knew he would not want her again.
   It was always that way. He had only enough for her to satisfy his most basic needs. She knew it wasn't because he was selfish, or not entirely; he was preoccupied, only that. His attentions were not for her. They were merely convenience, and had little to do with comfort, and less to do with love.
   Yet, she loved him. Or thought she did.
   He shook two cigarettes from the pack, stuck them in his mouth and lit them. He handed one to her, and she loved the quick touch of his fingers on hers as he passed the cigarette. And hated that she loved it.
   He took a deep drag on his cigarette, and tapped ashes into the empty wine bottle as he exhaled.
   His room was nearly barren. Almost lifeless. There was only the bed (a twin with only a single white blanket) and the nightstands on either side; the arrangement might be an obscene, yet accurate metaphor for his depth of feeling in this place.
   There was a large window opposite the bed, which offered a spectacular view of the west shore of Lake Marian . . . but he always kept the shades drawn.
   His clothes hung, neat and sterile, in the walk-in closet, hung logically, so that he could easily access whatever garment he needed: jackets on the far left, t-shirts on the far right, everything else in order; slacks, jeans, shorts, sweaters, button-downs, turtle necks. All solid, cold colors; black, blue, white, khaki. His footwear stood sentry on the floor beneath the clothes, also in order; boots, dress shoes, tennies, sandals, slippers.
   The only decoration in the room was a rose in a thin, crystal vase, atop the nightstand which would be on his side of the bed if he chose to share it. The rose was long dead; it had once been red, but was now almost black. Still, he watered it regularly. She guessed it meant something to him, maybe even something profound. She didn't care though. The flower was dead. It would never smell sweetly, or dazzle the eyes . . . though its thorns could still draw blood.
   They smoked in silence for a time.
   She went to draw the blanket over her, but he stopped her gently, yet firmly, with his hand on hers.
   "No," he said. "I like seeing you."
   And she liked hearing that. This was how it went. It was almost a torture. She always started to feel uncomfortable in her nakedness, vulnerable, unsafe. He preferred her that way.
   His eyes wandered over her body, not hungry, only curious, speculative, as if he were looking at a place he'd been before but couldn't remember where or when. His eyes never met hers, though.
   When his eyes had seen their fill, he looked back at the window. Beyond the drawn curtains was such beauty; perhaps his memory of that beauty was better to him than the real thing.
   They were silent again for a time. The only sounds in the room were the deep, easy breaths of two spent lovers, the tiny crackle of the burning cigarettes, the minute ticking of the second hand on his watch.
   She reached over and dropped her cigarette butt into the wine bottle, where it hissed and sputtered. Smoke whispered up from the neck of the bottle.
   "Thank you, Michael," she said.
   "For what?" he asked. He did not look at her, but only stared at the drawn curtains, perhaps already knowing what he would see: the sky starting to burn orange as the sun sank behind the pines, the reflection captured on the still water of Lake Marian, like an oil painting.
   "For . . . filling me up," she said. And she giggled softly, knowing how he would take that. Against her will, her mind added, yet leaving me empty.
   "That's almost obscene," he said.
   She rolled over on her side and ran a hand down Michael's face, relishing the rough masculinity of him. She gently tried pulling his face toward hers, but he was softly obstinate. She leaned closer and kissed his cheek. He closed his eyes. She rolled over onto her back again, again far too aware of her nakedness.
   Michael opened his eyes and shook two more cigarettes out of the pack. He lit them, and handed one to her. She didn't feel like smoking again, but she took the cigarette, and only watched the purple ribbons of smoke, rising, then disappearing.
   She wondered what he was thinking. She reached between his legs and caressed him there, knowing he would jump at her touch, and feeling comfortable in that knowledge. It was all she knew of him. Whatever went on behind his gray eyes, she knew not. She recalled a creative writing professor in her sophomore year of college. "Write what you know," he'd said. "It is the simplest and most effective rule I can teach you." And so she wrote what she knew.
   Michael jumped at her touch, tensed, then relaxed again as he grew accustomed to it.
   They smoked in silence.
   "Will you always love her?" she asked suddenly, without knowing she was going to. His eyes widened, almost imperceptibly. So maybe she did know a little of his mind, at that. Maybe she did.
   "What are you talking about?" he asked, but she did not answer. After awhile, he answered her question: "Yeah. Probably I will."
   "Does it feel the way love is supposed to?" she asked him.
   He sighed.
   "I don't know how love is supposed to feel," he said. "I only know that it's supposed to feel."
   "And what comes after?" she asked.
   "After love?"
   "Yes, after love."
   He took a drag on his cigarette, and dropped it, half-smoked, into the wine bottle.
   "Nothing," he said. "There is no after."
   "I guess you're right," she said.
   He must have heard something in her voice other than her words, because he finally looked at her. Actually saw her. She was frightened and unsure, and maybe a little bitter. She saw concern in his eyes, but it was a distant concern. The way one might be concerned for a rabbit trying to cross a busy street.
   "I love you, you know," she said. "Doesn't that count for anything?"
   She looked down as she said it, wanting to see his reaction, but afraid to.
   He was quiet for a long time.
   Finally he said, "it ought to."
   She did look up then, and saw that tears were swimming in his eyes.
   But they did not fall.
   And they were not for her.
   She laughed, bitterly, and rolled over onto her side, away from him.
   Michael rolled over onto his side next to her, his body against hers, empty comfort. He put his arm around her and nestled his face between her neck and shoulder and breathed in deeply.
   Write what you know, she thought.
   She took his hand and placed it on her breast.
   "I can't do this anymore, Michael."
   "I know," he said. His breath tickled her neck, made her shiver a little. "I'm sorry."
   After awhile, they slept.

10:55 AM - 12 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

Maybe I’m A Dog Who’s Lost His Bite
Current mood: Compassionate

Life is precious. And, to paraphrase Queen Elizabeth I, I am soft and made of melting snow. I've been feeling more and more lately that it's just wrong to take life. My house is very appealing to these certain beetles. I find them wandering around on my carpet, or flailing on their backs on my kitchen linoleum. I guess they eat dust and tiny crumbs. And I can't bring myself to kill them. Every time I see one, I coax it onto a piece of paper, and deposit it in my front yard.
   This year, I decided to plant some grass seed. As soon as I laid the seed, hundreds of ants appeared and proceeded to steal all the grass seeds, presumably to plant in their own yards. I let them have it, and as a result, my grass is coming in very patchy.
   A couple years ago, I had a bit of a mouse problem. I first tried these sliding door traps, and they worked for awhile. I would catch a mouse, and then release it in an unsuspecting neighbor's yard. Eventually, though, the mice got wise and the traps stopped working. I then bought glue traps, naively thinking they would serve the same purpose as the sliding door traps: I could trap the mice, and then release them, alive. Not so. I came home one evening to four mice trapped up to their ankles (do mice have ankles?) in glue, screaming and writhing. There was no way to remove them. I was supposed to throw them in the garbage and let them starve to death while they screamed and writhed. Instead, I put them in a plastic bag and ran them over with my car. Brutal, yes, but quick. And it broke my heart.
   There is, however, that vague but all-important line in the sand. When is it okay to kill? When I was preparing my yard for all the green things that will almost certainly be dead before Summer is over, I came across a Black Widow in her web. Her web happened to be in a spot where my dog likes to lay in the sun. I killed her immediately, without a second thought (but not without remorse).
   My point here is that I've been considering becoming a vegetarian. Last night, I was searching Youtube for videos of cattle being slaughtered. I found a very grotesque video which, in all likelihood, wasn't shot in the United States. There was this device, much like a water wheel. A cow was prodded into this thing, then revolved until it was upside down. Then the cow's throat was cut, and its trachea ripped out. The cow was then dumped into a blood-soaked pen, where it ran, and screamed and slipped around in the blood until it finally bled to death. One of the men working there kicked blood in its face as it died. This video lasted about five minutes, chronicling the deaths of three cows in that manner.
   That slaughtering method is probably not very common in the U.S., but I think it does happen. There is a Humane Slaughtering Act, which states that an animal must be rendered insensible before cutting begins. This is usually done by electric shock. However, certain religious rites are exempt from that act, even in the U.S. One of these religious rites states that the animal must be sensible while its throat is cut.
   I tried to find that video this morning, so I could post it here, but it disappeared into cyber land. That's probably all to the good. It was very hard to watch. It made me cry. And, to post it here, would probably be construed (and accurately, at that) as either pornography or scare tactic. So I'll let my description of the video stand on its own.
   I've eaten meat my whole life. Meat is the cornerstone of just about every meal I eat. I like meat. And I don't discount its nutritional value. It is impossible, without a supplement, to get the right kind of iron from any source other than flesh. Our bodies metabolize and absorb significantly less iron when we get it from a plant source. It's very hard to get the right fatty acids without meat, specifically fish. Nuts and legumes contain Omega fatty acids, but not enough. We are made to consume flesh. It's nutritious and, goddamnit, it tastes good!
   And this is certainly not a health choice. I'm pretty unhealthy as it is. I've subsisted for the past three days on coffee, cigarettes, mayonnaise, corndogs and Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
   I just think that we are too far removed from the killing process for it to be ethical. For us, meat is nothing more than a package on a shelf in the grocery store. It might as well have never been a living, breathing thing with as much a right to life as we have. It's a product, same as laundry detergent or a box of cereal.
   Therefore, my first step in making this decision is to visit a slaughterhouse and see how it's done. UNR has one off of McCarran, just north of Mill. Who wants to come with me? Takers?

11:23 AM - 13 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Flexing
Current mood: Alone

   It's nine o' clock on a Thursday night. I just mowed my lawn, and now I'm at the computer with a glass of Scotch and a cigarette. I'm doing something I do quite well . . . and no, I'm not referring to the seemingly endless pouring of words which scream to be heard at all times, even if they are childish . . . even if they are mundane . . . even if they come from my heart. I'm talking about being alone. When I'm done at the computer I'll pick up a book, maybe draw a bath. After that . . . a movie, maybe. Or maybe I'll just turn the lights off and sprawl out in my bed and wait for that ultimate temptress, sleep, to take me in her arms and show me the things which lurk in my mind. 
   For instanse (that's for you, Gina) last night I dreamed I lost two of my bottom teeth . . . I was hideous. I was certain that I would live the rest of my life in shame, that I would have to learn how to smile with only my upper lip. When I woke up, that fear was quickly replaced by the overwhelming need for a cup of coffee. 
   I'm not sure if I'm the best judge of my own character, but if I had to step outside myself and define what I saw, it might sound like this: a strange breed of unfounded self-loathing and equally unfounded egotism, mixed with a deep compassion which probably stems from my own fear of pain, which makes me as selfish and as human as any of you.
   I have a point here, I just don't know how to say it.
   I'm alone, and I like it that way. I'm no good at sharing, and I don't work well with others. When someone is in bed with me, I become unknowingly violent, kicking, thrashing and screaming obscenities in my sleep, while my waking moments are spent humping their leg until I get what I want. This is a weakness, but not completely.
   There are too many people who don't know how to be alone. They always need someone to dote on and coddle them, because otherwise they have no method of self-affirmation. This disgusts me so much, I can't even put it into words. Because, while I love being alone, and while I'm better at being alone than I am at sharing . . . I HAVE shared. I HAVE given myself, if not selflessly, then close enough for government work.
   And it was the most beautiful and painful thing I have ever experienced.
   I can't imagine cheapening that by trying to duplicate it. Not that it can't be duplicated . . . the key word there is TRYING. To quote the late, great Kurt Vonnegut: "love is where you find it. I think it is foolish to go looking for it . . ."
   And finding love is like finding a hundred dollar bill on the ground (or growing on a mysterious tree, if you read my last blog) . . . which is to say, RARE! If it weren't so rare, it would not be so wonderful and awful at the same time. It would be cheap and meaningless as a drawer full of pennies. It would be mundane.
   I don't think I've ever had a harder time saying what was on my mind. I'll say only this, and leave it be: learn to be alone. And if you find a dollar bill on the ground, don't try and make it more exciting by adding a couple zeroes to it in magic marker. Buy yourself a fucking candy bar and be happy, for fuck sake.

I'm so ineffectual sometimes. But look at my muscles . . . 
       

8:59 PM - 7 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

Justice Is A Footprint In The Dust
Current mood: Hopefully hopeless

   I am obliged to share with you a very sad story. It is a story of loss and perseverance and tragedy and hope. It should leave no doubt that if there is a creator, this person is deeply disturbed, as any talented artist is. The moral of the story is not a moral at all, but rather it is quite a dour implication for the lost yet hopeful souls whose lives seem to be only one big string of losses peppered with small victories, and whose victories are nothing more than the complicated machinery which keeps the coma patient at arm's length of the reprieve which he so desperately craves. 
   This is a story of a wretched creature, bereft of beauty, lacking purpose, existing solely to inspire sadness and depravity. Shakespeare said that "man, while he loves, is never quite depraved," but this story is not about a man. This story is about a thing incapable of love and of being loved. It has a name but no one knows what it is. It lives its life unnoticed, in fear, in the small dark places we pass by every day without a glance, and it dies unfulfilled in those same dark places, its whole life nothing more than a prayer whispered into a raging wind.
   I met this creature on my bathroom floor, struggling in fruitless tenacity, like a moth stuck in a Black Widow's web; except there was no web, and there was no predator. There was only me, watching in quiet horror and sick fascination as this beetle-like insect fought for its life and for its pride to no avail, upon what must have appeared in its eyes to be a barren landscape of linoleum which stretched for a thousand eternities in all directions, and me like a gleefully evil god presiding over this creepshow like a Roman emperor at the gladiator arena. 
   You see, when I'd opened my bathroom door, the gale-force wind which resulted had knocked the unsuspecting creature onto its back. It lay there, staring into the heavens and the ruthless eyes of its god, and it struggled almost certainly knowing it hadn't a chance. It wriggled its tiny legs in a silent frenzy, hoping for something tangible to cling to, but there was only air. Then it would curl up into a little ball, and I would think 'this is it, it only needs to gather its force and then explode back onto its feet.' But nothing happened. Its lower half was at least four times the length of its upper half, which made sitting up an impossibility. 
   I watched for at least five minutes as the creature stuggled in vain, not willing to believe that such a fallible design had made it from the drawing board to the factory. I knew that eventually one of two things would happen, and both scenarios saddened me deeply: either the bug would continue to struggle until every living cell in its body finally gave up and winked out like lights on a Christmas tree; or it would give up and quietly accept its fate. I wondered briefly if it might not be better off that way, but that was not for me to decide. It was powerless, but I was not. So I gently lifted it onto a paper towel and set it on its feet in the garden, where three times it almost fell onto its back again. And I could swear that far off I heard a bodiless voice laughing with malevolent cheer. 

   If there is any romance or justice left in this world, this is how the story will end thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of years from now, when there is not a single human being left to write it down: In a world which has been deprived of all the resources necessary to sustain life, a world ravaged and raped by human evil and greed, smoldering in the ashes of technological advance, a tiny creature shuffles its way across miles and years and centuries, up the evolutionary ladder. And in time, out of nothing but a will to survive in a world which does not tolerate it, something beautiful is born. It is consciousness and love and wisdom and hope and promise. It is a thing which could never have been born of human dollars and wars and sciences and religions. It is the most rudimentary form of innocence and intelligence. It is the thing which, for all the good intentions and grand inventions, man could never accomplish. It is blind and deaf and ageless and timeless. It is beauty without eyes. It is music without ears. It is love without reserve and it will never die.

"And the rage of love turns inward to become prayers of devotion
And these prayers are the constant road across the wilderness
These prayers are the memory of God. . .
~Paul Simon     

10:44 AM - 21 Comments - 11 Kudos - Add Comment

Tedium
Current mood: verbose

The greatness of a man is not measured by how well he lived, or even by how much he accomplished, but by how much he suffered and how eloquently he complained of it. It is a rare talent indeed to be able to suffer in solitude, to cry alone in the shadows of society, and to convince a normal human being that they can somehow relate; to convince a person that life is long, and mostly sad, and that a small amount of comfort can be taken from the bitter tears which fall from constantly disbelieving eyes.
   It is an especially unique attribute to be able to look upon a world that is a mess of sadness and beauty, of grace and failure, and know with every fiber of your being that it holds no place for you. That even alone, in a place you made for yourself, adorned with all the things which whisper to you of comfort and of familiarity, you know yourself only as a stranger in a strange place and everywhere you go you are surrounded by the invisible walls of your prison.
   It is a wonderful gift, to be able to see life for what it is, and love it with the romance and guilelessness of a child, and at the same time hate it with the practiced cynicism of a fatalist.
   Had I been born with talents as grand as these I might have some consolation, or at least a decent excuse for the way I am. After all, what is the use of loving so deeply, and hating so profoundly, and feeling quite bored with all of it, if I cant reach out to strangers and make them feel what I feel, if only for a small time?
   If I were an artist, I would capture the worlds horrible beauty on canvas, in green and gold and gray, and I would cry as I painted so that those who looked upon the work would know that it was built of love and pain and boredom. My painting would be of a creek, snaking through a meadow in the morning, just before a rain storm. It would be dull and brilliant, and those who saw it would know that finally someone had created a place for them to hide and weep without reserve, a place where the only thing to fear is knowing yourself too well.
   If I could freeze time within a photograph, it would be of a small child just after a crying fit, the tears still wet on his cheeks, but with eyes which were already remembering that nothing is wrong, not really. I would frame it, and hang it on my wall to remind me that tears are for remembering, not forgetting.
   If I could place my heart upon an empty page, and seal it in time, each word would have a cutting edge, and every verse would rhyme. Id speak of simple things, like broken hearts and broken dreams, and every word would shine. Id sing it quietly at night, because the darkness has no ears. And the secrets of my hopes and strife would be carried through the years. They would stay in tact and never again be carried back to my own unbelieving ears.
   It is a rare talent indeed.

Currently reading : The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde By Oscar Wilde Release date: 27 September, 1989

8:57 PM - 8 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment