Archive for the ‘ I'm thinking about...’ Category

Sad Clowns and Disco Boys.

Posted on May 30, 2010

“Maybe they’ll call me tragic” he says hopefully. Wistfully.

He grins awkward and crooked for a moment and then his eyes glaze and he stares dreamily through me; his face fixed, bearing a mutant’s smirk.

“They won’t think of you at all,” I say before I can stop myself.

Immediately, I wish I could take my words back. I hate to be the bearer of such news and I know he won’t believe me yet anyway. He’ll need to do his time and come to this on his own.

The sage-like tones that accompany my assertions are hard-won and harder accepted. He’s still living the dream.

As for me, I think of death often. Mine. His. Other people’s.

I consider when and how and the affect of the thing on those we leave behind.

I contemplate the preventable and the unavoidable, the calamities and tragedies.

I examine the sociological synthesis between leading causes of death in a given year and the state of the economy and other socially driven forms of ease or dis-ease. I seek patterns and connections and tangible reason. I seek comprehension of that which is largely incomprehensible. I do this in spite of my best efforts not to…

It seems that the leading cause of thinking about death is trying not to think about death.

However, it is because of these unrelenting reflections that I truly grasp the verity of our utter inconsequence. And this can be oddly freeing…

I know that the best most of us can hope for is some shadow of influence. Perhaps some whittled down version of our tales will traverse time and space and meet the future thanks to a stranger’s rendering of them…maybe through music or paint.

Maybe someone will detail the events of this night in Japanese one day. Maybe they’ll depict our pain in a poem. A haiku, possibly. I imagine the carefully crafted, indiscernible characters floating across a page of recycled bamboo paper. I imagine this moment in a universal sense. I pray that someone will be more proactive about its documentation than I’ve been.

My reverie is interrupted as he abruptly stands and moves toward the window.

Instinctively I follow him; fearful that he has chosen now to try and prove me wrong about the masses and their posthumous recollections of his tragic nature.
Instead though, he pulls a cigarette from a pack that lives on the windowsill. It seems he is still opting for the deliberate, creeping route toward an inevitable end, which pacifies my immediate concern and I fall back to my perch on the arm of the couch.

He doesn’t notice my movements. He seems not to notice my presence at all, really.

The custom-made gauzy white curtains billow mightily toward the ceiling; a reaction to a strong and unexpected gust of wind. An ember from his cigarette gets caught in the melee and burns a hole through the delicate fabric before falling to the floor and smoldering until nothing remains.

I used to care so much for things like gauzy curtains and rogue ashes.

But now they barely register.

I am preoccupied by his shadowy image and the dreamy phantasmagoria playing out before me.

He sits on the ledge of a window with no screen; unwittingly becoming the living, breathing metaphor of his own mental state. He is transparent yet furiously sobbing and wracked with free-form shame. He exhales a gasp of carcinogen filled smoke and his gaunt face becomes marred and I imagine him old and sickly. He is barely recognizable, a man on the edge in every way…I fight the niggling thought that it was my actions that got him here.

I opt instead to focus on his zippy, hooded sweatshirt.

“Love Kills Slowly,” it reads in dramatic cursive stitching.

He’s been wearing this jacket everyday for more than a week, but on some level he’s known this truth since the day we met.
Acknowledgement is a necessary evil, I think.

He turns to me then, as though I’d just arrived, as if I were new to the scene; a neighbor popping in for a quick coffee or asking to borrow an egg or some other triviality…

“So how’ve you been?” he asks easily. “What have you been doing?”

I am surprised when I answer in tones as casual as his.

“Not much. Work. Life. Just feeling kind of…solitary” I say.

I am careful with my word choice. Solitary is fair, in spite of my near-constant state of accompaniment. ‘Alone,’ would’ve been a more exact truth, but assuredly he’d find cause to argue the adverb.

Best to stick with simple adjectives at this time of night.

A long beat envelops the space.
He stubs his cigarette out.
He lights another and inhales deeply before speaking.

“The key to happiness…to all good things, really,” he says, “is stupidity.”

I silently disagree. Stupidity and ignorance are wholly different, I mentally argue.
But I let it go. Close enough, I reason.
He’s drunk. I’m exhausted.

His eyes change suddenly; now emitting an intense flaming lucidity that is by turns radiant and evil. I try to look away but the searing beams of light latch into my corneas before I can even mount a defense.

A vein in my arm vehemently pulsates and then it bursts without warning. The blood gushes just beneath the outermost layer of my epidermis causing my skin to swell and then violently tear amidst the chaotic pressure.

I look to him in fear and devastation, but he notices only vaguely. He lights another cigarette, apparently unaware of the one still pressed between his lips.

Streams of my indigo blood run the length of the slanted floorboards and coagulate in viscous tide pools in the corners of the room where the walls and the parquet meet.

“It isn’t even real wood,” I mutter, dizzy and fading.

Silence now.

He stands and turns from me. He wades through the noxious mess and down the hall toward the bedroom. He closes the door gently and locks it behind him.
I know in that moment that love and hate are exactly the same.

The wind swells. The curtains flutter and twirl, insolently taunting me.

The couple next door is throwing things again.

Jabs, insults, coffee mugs and such…

It’s Tuesday.

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Forward. March.

Posted on April 21, 2010




v. moved, mov·ing, moves


1. To change in position from one point to another

2. To progress in sequence; go forward

3. To progress toward a particular state or condition

Moving in. Moving up. Moving over. To remain in motion.

To perpetuate movement.

Life is nothing if not a series of movements. We each travel a path.

Some feel this path is predetermined, and where it leads, they will follow.

They do not ask any questions, least of all, “Why?”

Some feel the path is being created on the fly. We are both the strategists plotting the route and the captain of the vessel traveling it. There is only us and the wind and the moment.

Plans are made and changed according to unanticipated roadblocks or sea squalls or fanciful whim, but are never definitive.

The only constant, the only promise, is movement.

And now here we are (where “here” is; still undetermined,) looking at this nonsensical sequence of events that comprise our existence and wondering how it all happened.

“Who is in charge of this chaos?”

“I want to speak to your supervisor!”

“I want answers!!!”

(“Please hold…”)

And now the Earth is shaking and exploding and vomiting the thousands of years of toxicity we have foisted upon it…

It is trying to purge the problem (we are the problem,) in order to create a solution.

To begin again. To move forward. With or without us.

But the masses are suddenly angry and frightened and engaged in a fight to the death. They arbitrarily hurl money and prayer and blame and platitudes at that which they do not understand, in order to regain control and create a sense of security surrounding the epic calamity that is life. They prefer a falsified sense of comprehension to an unverifiable truth.

They ignore the obvious to propagate their ignorance. It’s simpler.

The Girl is not implying that she is not guilty of this (she is) or that she is not fighting alongside her fellow men, but she does see a few key strategic differences with regard to the battle plan itself, which prevent her from offering alliance…

Where an overarching fear of melting into oblivion dictates that the masses “Keep Calm, and Carry On,” as they methodically create PowerPoint presentations and graphs and charts and statistics, The Girl observes from the sidelines.

“That doesn’t look fun,” she thinks.

And then she turns around. She faces away from them. She stares at nothing. She shuts her eyes and opens them quickly, repeating this pattern until she tires of it. She clicks her heels three times, but finds it trite, and so she clicks some more. She spins in her chair. She points her toes. She wonders what all of the hubbub is about. Life is pretty simple from where she sits.

She thinks about inviting the masses to join her. She wants them to peer through her lens, if only for short while. But then she ponders the noise and the inevitable protest and the overcrowding. She loathes overcrowding. She considers what might happen when she wants them to leave so that she can once again be alone in her spin-ny chair…she worries about the ones who won’t want to leave. The stragglers. There are always stragglers. She really loathes stragglers.

She knows she is selfish in certain regards, and now she embraces it and leaves them to their own devices.

The Girl considers her tactical defenses and is momentarily disquieted. She has few defenses, she realizes.  And then her anxiety is pacified. After all, “The best defense is a good offense.”

She says this aloud…as a mantra, of sorts. She considers herself acutely offensive.

She subtly smiles. She spins in her chair.

The Earth bubbles around The Girl, but she is unafraid. She is curious. Eager for Part Two.

“Sequels don’t always suck,” she reasons.

Still she wonders…

(She blames this wonderment on her innate humanity, which not for lack of trying, she has been unable to banish completely)

Still, she wonders… why The Earth must always be so boisterous in its upheavals and coup’s.

“Why must so many enemies be made in the name of progress?”

Maybe it is The Earth that needs a peek through her lens. A little perspective shift…

While she empathizes wholly with The Earth’s desire for advancement beyond its current situation and the innate need to discard that which troubles it, The Girl questions the validity of complete decimation as the ultimate solution.

She thinks on her own experience. She does this often.

She spins in her chair and then leans back far (so far, in fact, that she experiences a brief sizzle of excitement during a fleeting moment when the chair teeters perilously on its hind wheels and she fears that the thing might tip over completely and spill her out unto the floor with a loud Thud!)

But then the moment passes and she returns to vertical, considering the process of recovering or righting that which we perceive to be wrong in our lives.

She wonders whether we are actually evolving during these times, and learning lessons to take with us into future experiences or if we just crushing some piece of ourselves?

Is moving on always moving forward? Or is the whole process just a more acceptable method of building walls and layering fresh scar tissue upon our souls in the name of “preservation”?

When we dogmatically try to forget someone or something, we will.

Eventually, anyway.

But forgetting is dicey because then it’s all just gone…

Though we have cleansed our wounds and may no longer be susceptible to infection by a given assailant, is it not reasonable to assume that we’ve also succeeded in killing a great many good bacteria in the process?

“Penicillin,” she mutters.

One would be hard-pressed to find a more ardent advocate of passionate devastation than The Girl. Of this fact, she is well aware. And while she openly admits that at first blush the whole thing sounds very self-destructive and maddeningly cyclical; she believes that it also keeps her aflame.

Unlike the fighting masses and the belligerent Earth, The Girl is acutely conscious that without both awareness of and active participation in “The Spiral,” in some regards, one is avoiding life altogether.

“Balance,” she whispers, as places her hands on the uneven floorboards and kicks her legs mightily, resulting in a full inversion of her body. Her heels easily find the wall, which is behind her now, and she relaxes into the handstand as the blood rushes to her head. Her arms begin to shake at one point, but it is here that she remains. Because she knows that when she does right herself again, all will not be forgotten. She will be as she was, perhaps a bit flush and dizzy, possessing a slightly revised perspective on the events that led her to this space; but herself nonetheless.

And this pleases her. It is her way.

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Enigmatic Bliss (?)

Posted on February 27, 2010

She prefers to vanish as an enigma than disappear into the nebulous abyss…


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Shifting Paradigms

Posted on December 26, 2009

The Chasm

The Chasm

Things are happening. Changing.

The paradigms are shifting.

These movements are at once very fast and yet almost imperceptible to the naked eye.

As they should be. As they must be.

After all, there are those among us who are ill-prepared for the revolution.


The word, even in its simple, written form, clatters and crashes and splatters itself across the tablet.

I am filled with revolt.

Forever in the process of ‘coming around’, ‘rethinking’, and ‘retooling.’

Coup d’whatever-the-eff-I-am-currently-railing-against…

And lately, I’ve been trying to overthrow the very pattern itself…

After all, it can be ever so tiresome living in this constant state of upheaval…

Fear not, I am stating this simply as a means of explanation for my experimentation.

I have not permanently abandoned my characteristic esprit de guerre.

I am merely playing. I am dipping an explorational toe into the other side…

The more innate side of the affair, if you will…

And so I experimentally ask, “What of the natural breaks?”

Why don’t we ever give them the opportunity to show us what they’re made of?

What if we gave wild revolution the day off, and let the proverbial chinks in the armor appear when they might?

What if, just for kicks, we were to trust that natural selection will create the appropriate clumps and deposit all of life’s little idiosyncrasies into their proper categories; thus allowing for a natural situational breaking point to occur?

And now, imagine if such things were possible without any input from us whatsoever…

And so, with my ego shivering and fearful in the corner, I boldly posit this notion…

What if we really can have it all?

Why must the momentous overhaul of revolution always be accompanied by

unnatural, cataclysmic, golf-ball-sized-hail fallout?


Please pay no mind to my ego as it drowns in possibility.

So now, let’s suppose that we’ve succeeded in ceasing our attempts to cause the effect, and now we’re allowing the natural breakpoints to do our dirty work for us, and though we find ourselves slightly under-whelmed, we are sort of comfortably numb in the way that the simple-minded people might be…

And now we fill the space formerly occupied by the boisterous battle by breaking bread with the enemy, an act that was never possible back when we were annihilating everything in our paths in the name of “Revolution!”

“This is quaint,” I decide, “in some progressively, passive-aggressive way, anyhow…”

Still, it occurs to me that the shock value of my newfound placidity will, at some juncture, wear thin.

At which point, the battle will return. As it must.


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Cleaning the Slay

Posted on November 14, 2009

Unmistakable November Energy

Unmistakable November Energy

Dear November,

At once friend and foe, it seems you have returned…

While there is little surprise herein, your particular brand of obscenity is always newly vexing.

Still, you have become gracefully nimble over time…

Where once you boorishly obliterated, now you quietly creep.

It is very nearly convincing, this act.

But unlike your façade, the battles you bring forth are not hushed.

They are brutal and bloody and bathed in disgraceful supposition.

Your sad aggression programs the minions for acceptance of their crushing fate.

Yet still we linger as lambs awaiting slaughter.

Neither do we flee and scream, nor idly surrender; instead we view you as spectators might. We gaze through telescopically-wide eyes, as you shamelessly defile life as it had been.

October feels like a time very far gone now.

I should like you better, sweet November, if at least you had the decency to be honest.

If you are vile, be very vile. If you are passionate, be it at it’s least restrained.

If you should like to be heard, please speak up.

Your riddles are complex.

Make no mistake, I do not judge you, November, for I, too am afflicted.

I seem also to be saddled with an inability to express my meaning. And so we are the same in that regard. You have my deepest empathy… for as you know, there is little worse than possessing great truths too weighty for utterance.

And so, “riddle me this…”

(It continues.)

In remarkable wonder and indelible knowledge that I am yours,


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The Force of Fire

Posted on October 5, 2009

It tends to hasten things...

It tends to hasten things...

“What colour is that?”


It is then that she notices him holding her tiny hand in his.

“It’s called Russian Navy.”

A bit embarrassed. She. Not he.

“Same?” He nods, indicating her toes.


Slight nod. Implicit approval.

One leaves, then.

He. Not she.

One moment ago: they.

Standing so close that their noses touched; their breath intermingling.

Inhale. Exhale. Wrap. Twirl. Become.

And now…parted.

She: solo. Sit. Sat. Sunk.

Suddenly guilty, she wonders how long it’ll take him to realize that she’d devoured his heart in that moment…during that minute nanosecond, when she’d glimpsed his insides through the all-seeing holes in his head.

She’s quick. (He’d never given her credit for that.) But, (she concedes) not quick enough.

She’d wanted to siphon all of his knowledge and pillage his innards.

She, being equitable and fair always, would have traded her entrails for his during this period of exploration.

She’d never ask him to go without.

Not for a second, even.

“But his Spleen!” her own insides silently scream, “My God! If we are asked to live another moment minus a thorough exploration and intimate excavation of his Spleen…”

Pushy fucking innards.

(Tactical switch: alliance building, now) “…honestly, we MUST know. If we do not, we fear that the future of mankind may be in deeper jeopardy that anyone knows.”

They are serious. The mission is clear. She had just gathered the courage to bring up the barter when he’d suddenly departed.

The Russians were calling. The Navy sent word.

Her insides are enraged. Borderline demented. She, nonplussed.

Reaching, “Well, at least we ate his heart.”

This does little to placate them. She has no ability to continue attempts at reason.

Waste of time, assuredly…

She had mashed her senses and emotions together long ago. She had turned them from separate, feeling, knowing, beautiful, individuals into cattle and sheep and various other followers.

Numbing had stolen the yoke in a violent coup and had subsequently become the Commander.

He believes in ruling through threats of violence.

Dogmatic, and rarely chastened, young Sadness is currently under fire…

“NO! Do not you dare FEEL that! I am warning you!”

“Weakness will not be tolerated”

(He is out of control, this much is clear…)

“You asked for it!”

(Apologies sweet, mislaid, Sadness…)

“Reticence!” Numbing beckons his faithful militant.

(barely audible) ”yes, sir?”

“Smother Sadness…now.”


“No, you idiot, don’t murder him, he comes in handy when we are trying to appear…oh, never you mind… just suffocate him so that he passes out for a spell.”

(She shuts her eyes and opens them when she hears nothing)

Sadness lies before her. Neatly sleeping and filed next to Aching, Lust and Desire.

Pathetic, almost… how easily extinguished these purportedly ’strong’ siblings actually were.

How quickly they submit. All a facade. They appear content now. Stupid.

George meet Lennie. Lennie, George.

The ‘weak ones’ would be woken for weddings and funerals and parties involving babies.

Only occasionally, though. Not as necessary anymore as it had been in the beginning.

The Solders had become more adroit at handling the ‘weak ones’ former responsibilities.

At this point, allowing them to come out and play at all was merely a tactical diversion.

A war game created by the Captain of Covert Ops.

The Captain of Cover up’s.

The Captain of ‘move-along-nothing-to-see-here’

“Best to allay the rampant fears of the foolish masses,” he’d say in his prototypical boom.

It was dance done for them. The rest. (Never for her.)

But suddenly, though they appear to be lying in rest, supposedly anesthetized, all of those misplaced Needs, Desires, and Wants are choking her. The walls are drawing in. The floor is rising to meet the ceiling and the ceiling lowering to meet the floor. The toilet and sink now float near her ears. Must open a window. No window. They don’t open, anyway. Air’s too thin up here. Cant. Breathe.


“Ladies and Gentleman, the Captain has turned on the fasten seat belt sign. If you are up and about the cabin, please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. We are headed into some storms that could be deadly. Cheers!”

And then…

“신사 숙녀 여러분, 선장 고정 좌석 벨트 사인이 켜져있다. 만약 당신이 오두막에 대해서, 당신 자리로 돌아가 주시기 바랍니다 안전 벨트를 장착합니다. 우리는 치명적일수있는 그 어떤 폭풍우로 향하고있습니다. 건배! “

“Gibberish. Nonsense talkers,” she growls

A quarter turn to the mirror reveals sunken eyes, too large for the head of the one they adorn. Cherubic cheeks? Missing! M.I.A.! Call the authorities, post haste! Time is of the essence!

Blasphemy! The angelic flesh which once adorned this jaw; pilfered!

A.P.B.! A.P.B.!

Now, barely recognizable…hastily replaced with these gaunt, hollowed out, shadow beasts, which had undoubtedly belonged to some whore from Minneapolis who’d met an untimely death at 2am in middle America. Though her liver was shot and her heart unsalvageable, they’d been able to harvest her cheeks. Thank God, she’d marked the ‘donor’ box on her license. Rest in peace.

She smoothes her right eyebrow, and plucks a non-existent fuzz from her sweater.

Partially here, partially gone, the sinner turned saint is stuck in the middle with no recourse.

Maybe a couple of days in Guadalajara would help.

Where is this vessel headed, anyhow?

She pulls herself halfway unto the sink in order to have space to shove her arm in her satchel.

She is grateful that the space has opened again. That incident with the walls might nearly have driven her mad.

She unearths her boarding pass.

Tokyo. Fuck.

What the fuck might happen in Tokyo? What would she do?

She doesn’t speak a lick of Portuguese.

“Imbecilic airline wench…I knew she had it out for me. Never trust a gap-toothed smile. You know better…,” she tells herself.

She’d specifically told the agent that she’d wanted a one-way ticket to ‘the furthest location from here as humanly possible.’ She hadn’t counted on the agent having no geographical sense.

TOKYO? Really?!

‘Specificity. Must learn to be specific.’ Duly noted.

This would’ve been so much better were she headed to Helsinki. Much further away.

And at least they spoke the language. Or she did…

Fading. Fuzzy. Goddamn locked window.

Fake it. Fake it. Breathe. Fake it.


How different might Helsinki and Tokyo really be?

Architecture in Tokyo.

No, the Architecture too, belongs in Helsinki. Faded memory. Long ago. Song. Tinkley chimes. Angelic voice speaks of  “frequent lies.” Speaks of “broken legs” and “arms in slings,” and “secret cries” and “diamond rings.”

Such a pretty tune and such wretched thoughts. Pretty. Wretched. Pretty wretched.

Frantic rapping on the door disrupts her reverie.

‘JUST A MOMENT!’ she hears herself yell. It sounds like her, anyway. Hard to say definitively.

Restless fucking natives. If this were any indication of how Tokyo was to be, she’d surely have to hop a pontoon to Australia imminently. She’d no patience for impatience, you see.

‘Animals, all of them.’ she mutters

They had no respect for the existential masturbation she was performing in here…

No empathy for the highly flammable mental exorcism she was undergoing.

More banging.

These bastards clearly don’t understand the language.

“Door swings out!’ she calls

It does, nearly taking out the midget wearing green, in the process.

‘Beware the Russian Navy,’ she warns as she pushes past.

Her words, bathed in kindness, were intended to make him fear her, but her tactic was certainly not as effective as it might’ve been, had they the benefit of shared linguistics.

She marches past them. On display. Parade.

‘76 Trombones led the big parade. With one hundred and ten….’

110 what? What were there 110 of, meant to accompany the 76 trombones?

Brief thought of awakening ‘Intellect’ and asking the question, but ‘Memory’ was knocked out and nestled in his bosom. No way. The risk associated with unintentionally rousing that trifling Plebeian, was simply far too great.

24, 23, 22,…

Look left at 19, look left at 19. Casual left at 19.

21, 20…


Looks Left.

Inhales in preparation for ’sigh of relief’ to be released at 18.

And then…


Right hand tapped. Freeze tag. Freeze.

Whispered. “Hey…”

It’s too loud, here. Move. Do it. Whirring engine. Roaring crowd. Never heard, never happened. Unfreeze thyself. Move.

No power. Out of gas. Frozen. Dead.

Louder. ‘Hey, come here.’

Command. Oblige.

Wordless lean to the…right. (Fuck)

“The Russian Navy is almighty. You should keep it.”

Unfrozen. Still frostbitten. “It does not belong to me.”

Hand dropped. Or pulled. Unsure.

18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13…

Turn to the right. Sit. Buckle.


“Ladies and Gentleman, we realize you have a choice when you fly and we thank you choosing Evanescent Air. Kindly brace for impact.”

12, 11, 10….

“신사 숙녀 여러분, 우리는 당신이 날 때 우리는 당신이 사라져가는 항공을 선택 감사선택의 여지가 알고있습니다. 좋은말 충격에 대비하라.”

9, 8, 7….

She is grateful that they had missed that.

The chloroform was still being tested and was not yet on the ‘Official List of Approved Methods of Consciousness Suspension’, but Numbing would surely fast track it for habitual use, after witnessing how Fear, Faith and Hope had remained dormant through these fateful shenanigans.

6, 5, 4

She languidly swipes at a tickle that taunts her ear. It persists.

Careful to avoid any sudden movement, she shifts her eyes towards the left.

Rebellion has risen. He is cloaked in garments she instantly recognizes as belonging to Senescence.

Now is when Surprise and Confusion would have prompted her to react on their behalf.

Those days are gone, though.

No sudden movements.

She works from some hidden, manufactured, muscle memory, “But where is…?”


No time to explain now. He is hurried. Coming here was risky. Time moves at warp speed.

So must we all.

He speaks resolutely. He begs that she listen. No time for repetition. She must focus now.

She promises.


Intently. He riddles her this:

“What will conceive you? What will make your being take flight, ablaze in the hellfire? What will propagate the revelation of the truth betwixt your lies? When will your soul win the day? When will you get born?”



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Flu Shots, PC’s, Anti-Virus, and Unintentional Threats

Posted on September 16, 2009

Opportunity. Cost?

Opportunity. Cost?

Girl walks into a bar and orders food ‘to-go.’
Bartender takes order and opportunity to strike up conversation.
Bartender offers Girl a drink. Girl asks for Diet Pepsi.

Bartender raises eyebrow and asks Girl if she’d care for something stronger. He adds that her drink is ‘on the house.’
Girl sticks with cola and Bartender sticks with conversation.

(We now join Bartender and Girl mid-conversation)

B- “So, you live on (Names Street)? We must be neighbors. I live on (Names Street).”
G- “Oh yeah, I live right on that corner.”
B- “In (Names Condo Complex)?”

(Girl nods)

B- “Wow, that building is nice! You live there all alone?”

Girl notes usage of term ”all alone” and vocal intonation with which it is delivered.
Girl cannot tell if Bartender pities her in manner of sickly, runt puppy left unpurchased at seedy, shopping mall pet store, or if he is implicitly inviting himself over, in attempt to save Girl from all-encompassing “loneliness.”

G- “No…I live in that building with Spouse.”

In the name of propriety, the recounting of this somewhat mundane, seemingly simplistic conversation betwixt strangers in a mostly empty, wholly un-busy bar, should continue…
It should go on to cover the beginning of football season, the lovely Fall weather, or Kanye West’s ridiculous outburst at the VMA’s…
But it does not.
Because Bartender walks away. Wordlessly. As in, ‘without further words.’
Almost as if Girl had asked Bartender if he’d ever made out with a goat or if he had a ‘thing’ for underage boys.
Alas, Girl had asked none of those things, nor anything remotely similar.
Girl had merely given an above-board answer to an apparently not-so-above-board question.

Stop. Story.
Girl walks into a drug store.
Rather, Girl walks into two separate drug stores, on two separate days, and witnesses two separate humans being inoculated with some form of anti-flu super venom.
Girl has brief thought of ponying up $24.99, in hopes of protecting self from heinous influenza and the fever, chills, sore throat, runny nose, can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t breathe, ‘knock yo ass out,’ ugliness which the infection tends to bestow upon its victims.
Girl finds self walking away from the pharmacy counter, sans immunization.
Girl knows this is un-smart.
And Girl considers self intelligent.
But Girl also considers self a risk-taker.
Girl takes risk.
Girl likes Mac.
Apparently, Girl would rather have virus in self than in laptop, so though she does not invest in flu shots, she does invest in virus-free computers.
This is reasonable to Girl.
Girl also enjoys taking her virus-free electronics with her wherever she may roam.
Girl really likes to roam.
Girl begins to feel concern that continuing her nomadic journeys with her precious, snow-white Mac may eventually cause critical injury.
(To Mac, not Girl)
Girl investigates options. Girl also really likes options.
Girl discovers existence of 10-inch, uber-portable Netbook.
Girl is disheartened to learn that these Netbooks are PC’s.
Girl believes that PC is to Cain as Mac is to Able.
Still, Girl has soft spot for mobility and feels pull of temptation by innocuous Netbook. Girl is a long-time sucker for troublesome people and objects, in spite of or perhaps because of, their proclivity for finding themselves erring towards the dark side.
Internal debate ensues.
Spouse ends debate when he bestows a very compact, very powerful, and very alluring, jet-black PC upon Girl, in honour of her very recent birthday.
Girl is now free to gallivant with Cain the Evil PC, in tow.

In bid to protect health and vitality of Cain the Evil, Girl has several top-notch anti-virus systems installed in tiny, new companion.
Cain is now protected in manner similar to Fort Knox.
Girl cannot help but consider the psychology behind protecting electronics and not self.
Girl reconsiders flu shot.
Girl un-reconsiders flu shot after rationalizing that PC is weak when faced with threats of infiltration by malevolent forces and thus necessitates strength, in form of advanced fortification, while Girl is strong.
Girl prefers to battle mano-a-mano.
Girl really, really enjoys challenge.

(We re-join Girl waiting for food, just as Bartender places to-go order atop bar)

G- “Are you religious?”
B- “Well, I believe in God, but I’m a bad Christian.”
G- “Me too.”
B- “That was random.”
G- “No more random than you abruptly ending our conversation, immediately after my Spousal revelation…”

Bartender shows momentary sign of dismay, but recovers and quickly retorts:
B- “Well, I didn’t want to seem threatening. Even unintentionally.”

Girl internally scoffs but fights to remain composed.

G- “So, you were concerned that your flagrant male-ness might be construed as an unintentional threat on the heels of my matrimonial divulgation?”
B- “Well, you know…I have a girlfriend too.”

Girl suddenly feels as though she has entered insane, Twilight Zone-esque abyss.

G- “Right. So, regarding my religious query, I guess I just thought that perhaps you were the charter member of some religion wherein it is considered a sin to continue casually speaking to someone post-establishment of their marital status.”

Bartender smiles.
For his sake, Girl is glad that he is pretty.

Girl takes food, and last sip of “on-the-house” carbonated beverage and exits bar.
She does not feel threatened.
Intentionally or otherwise…

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I Got F*cked By Fleetwood Mac

Posted on August 23, 2009

How we ended up like this...

How we ended up like this...

We are the children who were told by our post-hippie parents that the ‘life-map’ was bullshit and that the ‘road less traveled’ should be sought out and pursued at any cost.

But suddenly, we are no longer children. We are adults.

And we are wandering down that “dark desert highway,” with all that “cool wind in our hair,” living just a beat to the right complete vagrancy, and the drugs aren’t cool anymore and our parents are either sipping champagne cocktails in Boca or in some 12-step recovery program, and no-one can guide because we are ‘fucking pioneers, man,’ but when the romanticism behind all that wears off, we’re just a group of dual diagnosis nomads self-medicating on the Adderall and Xanax we’ve stock piled, and wondering what the answer is. We’re lost.

So, now you have this generation of alleged ‘adults,’ thrust upon a world already dry-heaving with too much information, too many people, and way too much ‘enlightenment,’ and half of us are rebelling against our parents rebellion by being anything but what they told us to be, and getting corporate jobs and churning out scores of babies, while the other half of us are rebelling against ourselves for not rebelling all along; rather attempting to straddle the system, and thus creating mass chaos in our lives, which we now have to deal with but wouldn’t even be on the damn table if we’d just believed what we’d known from the start.

Hello. My name is Girl. And I am exactly like you.

The Girl has come to spin a yarn of truth from within this web of lies that we call life. This is a naked tale of folly, surrender, greed, lust, and cheeky disregard of all that is righteous and pure, with an evolutionary dash of pious morality sprinkled throughout; in vain attempt to satisfy the balance of the counter-balance scale which so harshly judges our counterculture.

Or our counter-counterculture, depending on who we are being today.

Thanks to “The Fleetwood Mac School of Spawn-Rearing,” from which my parents graduated with honours, I am acutely aware of the following realities of adulthood:

A) That I should always be “shacking up” and “packing up.” In other words, I should always, always, always, “go my own way.”

B) That it is completely fair that I might, in one moment, be “like a cat in the dark” and the next I might very well be “the darkness.”

C) That it is not mere fancy to genuinely believe that I am absolutely, “just a wish” and am, in fact, a “Gypsy.”

You see, my parents hath spun me these tales a great many times, and I’ve no cause, reasonable or otherwise, to question such plausible and obvious truths.

So, “Thanks, Stevie, Lindsey and Christine McVie!”

With morals and values like these at the helm, there is absolutely no chance that my generation will ever fall off course.

No damn way.

Still, I must explore the possibility that this may not be the plight of my generation, as a whole.

To be sure, some of us were equipped with a highly effective ‘internal distillation device’, right?

You know, that super-useful tool that enables its user to separate the fanciful pieces of cocaine-induced lyrical content, from a bona fide, sensible, ‘life-plan.’

Sadly, some were not given such advantages.

I believe myself to be a ranking member of the latter group.

On the up side, I got a bitchin’ first name out of the deal.

My search continues. If you need me, I’ll be somewhere in the desert, ruling my life “like a fine skylark,” when “the sky is starless.”

Hello. My name is Girl. And I am exactly like you.

These are ruminations from the abyss.

This is but one tale, one example plucked from millions of possible tales that lurk within this unorthodox faction of the Earth’s populace.

It is a metaphorical microcosm within the macrocosm.

We are the creators of the template.

We are the authors of the doctrine being written from the trenches.

“Who cares?” you ask, “Is this not the responsibility of each generation? This task of rising as one, unified in the quest to mold the rules to our desired specifications and revolutionize the status quo?”

And you would be justified in this query…for this task, in and of itself, is not unique.

Our disparity, our burden, if you will, is that this amendment of propriety and expectations, was not our idea.

It was their idea. Their dream. Their displaced and malnourished concept, laid to rest on the shoulders of their kin for implementation unto a world unready to accept this gift.

The puppet masters gave us life, and saw to it that we grew strong, while programming our feeble minds with the propaganda of this Liberal Mafia that they’d dreamt up.

They were the Capos and we, the low-ranking foot Soldiers…but we knew that if we were loyal and enterprising, the worlds into which we would be initiated, would challenge all that had ever been, and our efforts could give rise to an un-restrictive, peaceful and non-judgmental Utopia.

We were taught that there was Virtue in Selfishness, that ‘settling’ was for Pilgrims, and that ‘commitment’ was only for pussies or the certifiably insane.

We set about our travels to spread the groundbreaking word, bolstered by the prose of Miller, Bukowski, Rand and the good Dr. Gonzo.

We smoked joints rolled with the finest cannabis, while we laughed in the face in of failure.

But one day, we looked around us and saw no real ‘breaking of ground.’

We got scared.

We glimpsed the proverbial Looking Glass and we saw ourselves for what we were: a group of self-important, pompous, hemp wearing assholes, in desperate need of highlights and a job.

So we threw out our Phish CD’s, watched a few episodes of “Friends” on TV, and were magically transformed into publicists and attorney’s and other such nonsense.

We became all that we’d been taught to abhor.

Then we meet the Others.

The Others look like us and talk like us, and do not appear repulsed by the anti-societal rants which we still practice aloud from time to time.

Though perhaps these Others hadn’t been as militant in the ‘freedom fight’ as we had been, they were kind and good and it seemed that they suited us well.

We even found ourselves enjoying this Brave New World of brunch and Broadway Musicals.

Fuck Free Love!

I want a Condo with a view!

So, we float along the River of Bliss, buying duvets and pillow shams, praying that this whole scenario isn’t a sham, all the while shaming ourselves for even allowing the thought that it could be.

Suddenly many months have passed and the disquieting voice of the wanderlust within has not yet been silenced, and we are petrified that it may necessitate some tending to.

We decide to assess our surroundings.

We dust off our oh-so-familiar anti-societal rants. The ones that charmed the shit out of our Others a couple of years back, and we begin inserting these ideas into our everyday conversations.

But the years have robbed the words of their youthful exuberance, and the Others are now the opposite of ‘charmed’, instead they are openly dismissive of the notions we’ve posited, which leaves us feeling misunderstood and alone.

We console ourselves as the simpletons do…

We buy some new shoes and a bag.

But when we arrive home and look at our purchases, we realize that the ‘shoes’ were made for running and the ‘bag’ is actually a suitcase.

We gaze around the lives we’ve built and are gobsmacked by the reality that none of it matters a bit.

It could all go away…vanish without a trace and in the end it is only “the Gypsy that remains.”

Hello. My name is Girl. And I am exactly like you.

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The One I Might Never Be…

Posted on August 18, 2009

Possibility Lies Within...

Possibility Lies Within...

I would very much like to be considered a “woman of letters.”

It is a most egregious atrocity that this art form, this art of the hand writ epistle, has gone the way of human-to-human meetings and deep breaths…now almost extinct.

Merely a memory now (nearly)…

A delicate flame from a space in time which is no longer, soon to be permanently extinguished by the careless and regrettable gusty wind of ‘immediacy.’

Letters were beautiful.

So many facets…

So many elements, all brimming with analytical possibility.

The paper, the ink, the penmanship, the style, the wording, and the subtext

(how I love subtext)

All fodder for exam.

But like most forms of expression, letter writing is most rewarding when reciprocated.

I should think it frustrating to continually pen crafty missives, never to hear worthy rejoinder.

I’d certainly expect a reply heavily laden with equal amounts of minutiae and comparable levels of intellect as I have put forth.

This seems to be something of a fool’s errand.

Expectations and such…

Besides, my handwriting is sloppy.

And when it isn’t, it is only because I am trying too hard (always visually evident)

I fear both the ‘trying too hard’ or the ‘sloppiness’ would greatly detract from the mystique of the scented paper in the linen envelope and monogrammed wax seal I’d affix to the front…

Sadly, I may never be known as a “woman of letters.”

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Father of Ben Folds, Meet Mother of Girl

Posted on July 1, 2009

My mother left me a message recently (she knows I don’t listen to messages.)

She left it anyhow, and because we’d spoken just the day before, I figured it must be important.

I listen (in spite of myself).

It was my favorite sort of message. rambling. senseless (to most.) crazy fucking important (to me.)

She’d been pondering the validity of a lyric in Kris Kristofferson’s song, ‘Billy Dee.’ Regarding the line…

Between ‘free’ and ‘insane’. She wondered about the width of it. the line…

She rambled for a very long time… so long, in fact, that she began laughing and offhandedly likens her non-linear, irrelevant-to-any-current-circumstance, stream-of-conciousness thoughts, to the Ben Folds Five song, “Your Most Valuable Possessions” from their sophomore release, “The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner.

I’d turned her on to the band, and we’d both been extra-enamored by that most simple, yet gripping track.

I love when she is that peaceful. I love her rambling. I love her fully intended symbolism.

She’s clever like that.

I responded via e-mail. (I know she rarely checks her e-mail, but I am a shitty verbal communicator…):

From: The Girl

To: The Mother

My God, am I glad I made the decision to actually listen to your message, which, typically, a non-message-listener such as myself would not do.
I saved it. So beautiful.

In response to your message, I say:

The line is thin. Thinner than most of us care to imagine.
Or to believe.

Therein lies the rub…
Is a ’sane’ life worth living?
Wouldn’t you rather be a perpetual ‘line-walker’ than a ‘normal’? Than a ‘mortal’?
I would.
So would you.

But certainly someone out there would prefer safety…
Prefer normalcy?

Sure, those guys over there (she points,) the insane ones…

You see?

“Some folks called him crazy, lord, and others called him free
But we just called us lucky for the love of billy dee

It’s all perception. But what is the point of a half-lived, half-life, as seen in half-light?

In the poem, “half-light, half-life”, Billy Corgan (of the Smashing Pumpkins) says:
“Made a little check mark next to my heart
To remember this place for another day.”

Is that not the saddest statement ever?

Totally is.

Call it crazy, call it insane, but we have an obligation to live free…
To not put our-selves (our hearts,) on ‘hold for another day.’
No book marking (of life) allowed.
We are not responsible for the perception with which others see our actions.
We are only responsible for making the action that they are perceiving, authentic.
For better or for worse…

That’s my two cents, anyway (today)

I love you…

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