Master Butterfly Eats Yesterday

Mischa Czecka

2009-07-04T13:18:00.000-07:00

'Tears, tears..

Holding back the tears.

The tears I never shed.

Torn Curtain...'

Her mind spun wildly. The lack of sleep, the pressure of work, the constancy of everything, pushing her further off her balance. She was teetering and she knew it. If there was something to grasp she would have clung there, she would have held tight, for dear life was on the table. The television played in the corner of the penthouse but she didn't even have enough resolve to give it a thought. Couldn't just one thing in this careening world of hers hold form? It was all a swirl, a cyclone with no eye. She was caught in the winds and they blew wild inside her ideas. Nothing could take root, one thought swept away by the next and the downward spiral of fear and confusion then pulling her past the margin.

She had reservations. There were the phone calls, the promises, he made them. The Coldplay song and the way he reacted, warning signs. She didn't like Coldplay, knew them to be impostors but she thought she saw something inside him move as he listened. Why didn't she see it then? Was there anything to see? Fucking Coldplay, god damn it. She chased Coldplay down a dark alley and then lost them. She lost them because she was working twenty hours a day and his call was cold and she needed to rest and oh god she had never felt so low in her life.

Was it a confirmation of her resistance? She texted him and then she took it back but the text was written and when he didn't respond was the text written? He was sick and he didn't call. He was in the studio and he didn't call. And he didn't call. And she texted and now she was a total nothing. Why did you write this? She looked across the room to the television. There was a double helix and bold wording but she did not see. Was the double helix involved in this? Damn the double helix he didn't call he was in the studio and he was sick and she worked twenty hours a day and she texted and he didn't call.

You mean so much to me. Pick up the fucking phone. And she was tired and she grasped for anything. He called but he didn't because he had been sick and in the studio but he called and he wanted to know why she was so upset and she didn't know why she was upset. Coldplay; he reacted. Something, something, oh whatever. The double helix on the television. She read his text and it felt like nothing. Hold on she had never felt this low in her life.

Call me but where are you? Something was off, he was there but she didn't know where. She would have looked from the penthouse view but it caused her to dizzy. Where was he out those windows sick and in the studio with a phone he couldn’t use listening to Coldplay and she lower then she had ever known in her days and on the television the double helix and the bold words.

The curtain tearing and tears she’ll never shed. She was a total nothing. The sum of her insides in revolt. And he called and why was she so upset? She was working twenty hours a day and he was sick and the double helix and couldn’t she just hold onto something? And she had doubts from the beginning, why didn’t she see? And fuck Coldplay. It almost felt like confirmation of her resistance.

She buried her head in her hands but it couldn’t bury her thoughts. Oh my god, oh wow. I told you I was sick. You’re a total nothing. I never felt so low in my life. The windows saw out from the penthouse. If she could only grasp onto something, something, oh whatever.

The television in the penthouse and the double helix. They cured cancer on this day.

Hey Sailor

2009-06-20T18:11:00.000-07:00

They had just finished moving the chairs about, a subtle do-se-do that occurred each morning. No one was fooling anyone; she would eventually be seated across from him. He always sat with a view towards the east, past the lines of the coffee bar and then on to the street. He needed to see the rush of traffic and the people waiting patiently for coffee, he needed a way to release his feelings without drawing attention to himself. While watching the cars travel on Sunset Blvd. he placed himself inside those cars and looked through the windshields and lived in the world of those passersby.

Though it was a new ritual, this collection to be found each morning at the little café, it was a group much settled into a routine, a regimen that blossomed naturally. It was a situation that had become comfortable from the first day and from this arrangement they all knew great things might transpire. There was little doubt as to what each would order, and upon seeing this group settle in, the waitress too felt the propulsion of big things astir.

With coffees ordered and Morning Buns, half avocados, poached eggs en route, they got down to the business at hand. Nothing. He would look across the small table to her and inside him he would acknowledge the beauty of the moment. Her beauty framed by the terracotta walls, the small purple flowers in the vase, the white linen table clothes and shiny china plates. He leaned low and pleased himself as he caught a distorted view of her through the empty water glass. He kept this all private for he had not earned the right to so steal these views. He looked past again to the people in line and off to Sunset Blvd. and the rush of motion. He needed to settle.

The talk would start and each would add to it to their best ability. He might crack wise and she to with a toothless reprimand, the others quick to join this dance, this mystery dance that had no name. The food served only as a reason to congregate for the dance, the dance was the attraction though there was not one among them who might admit as much. An hour had passed and not much of substance had been said, he was filled and in him thoughts and ideas took root. He would not voice these thoughts but as subterfuge would play the clown, he would dance with wit and misdirection.

The Captain moved away from the table and left in his seat a twenty-dollar bill, obviously it had slipped from his pocket. He saw this and quickly moved from his seat, stood and moved next to her and the empty seat. Sure it was The Captains money, ‘what are you going to do with it?’ she said. In his mind he thought of Las Vegas and throwing that bill and with it every other dollar he had ever seen, he thought that he would put all this money, this meaningless money on red and spin the wheel, spin the wheel for her.

The Captain returned to his seat. Glances were exchanged and all knew that something would happen. The Captain felt this too... He sublimated his thoughts of Las Vegas and returned to the circus.

The Captain felt the eyes on him and spoke to it…

“What?”

His mind shifted. It was time to dance. To dance with her and show her he was worthy. He was worthy of Las Vegas; worthy of that and more.

“Captain, might you lend me a twenty dollar bill?” he said

“Really? A twenty? What is all this about?”

“It’s a simple question pal, do you have a twenty you can lend me?”

The Captain reached for his wallet. He had hoped that the Captain, seeing the missing twenty, might allude to that fact and this charade might see its quick end but the Captain was longer in the wallet on this day. He pulled out a twenty and held it aloft.

“So you want me to lend you this twenty, correct?”

He then showed the Captain the twenty found on the Captain’s chair.

“Sure, lend me that twenty.”

“But why, you have a twenty?”

“That I do but I want you to lend me that twenty.”

“But I…” the Captain said, somewhat aware that there was something afoot but not quite sure what.

“Just hand it over to me.”

“But then I won’t have any money.”

“I’ll tell you what, you give me that twenty and I’ll give you this twenty and your twenty and then you can just owe me forty dollars. Simple.”

She did all she could not to give him away. He knew this; it was a pirouette on her part. At the next table a girl, new to this group, to their natural to and fro, to the dance and the gamesmanships that they played, tried to warn the Captain. Before she had mouthed her second word there was already conversation about her repatriation to New York City. This was California and they danced a different dance in California.

He was stone cold serious, though he had no right to be, and so the Captain had good feeling that he was to a great degree being played.

“Wait, wait…this doesn’t make sense”, said the Captain.

“What sense is there to make of this? It is simple proposition and you would do best to see at such and just accept my generous offer.”

He could see her. He knew that she knew that they, the two of them, she and him, were dancing. That this dance was for her. The Captain caught on and he too was happy to dance. It was a great morning to dance this dance they all danced. This dance was for her.

“So if I give you this twenty and then you lend me forty then I’ll owe you a forty? I must admit that though you are indeed a charming fellow, but a seven year-old Tatum O’Neal you are not.”

“Okay. Let’s just say I give you my twenty and then you can owe me a twenty”, he said.

“Somehow I think that you sir are attempting to take advantage of my good nature.”

“Oh Captain, would I do that?”

She looked at him and a smile rose in her eyes that then spread south and engulfed the rest of her face.

“All right Captain, take this twenty from me and you won’t owe me anything”, he said.

“Wait a second, you are going to give me a twenty? This doesn’t seem right.”

“It’s very simple.”

He reached over and handed the Captain’s twenty-dollar bill back to him.

“So now I owe you a twenty right?”

“No, you owe me forty.”

“But you only gave me a twenty.”

“Okay so you owe me twenty.”

“But I don’t want this twenty.”

“Then you don’t owe me a twenty.”

“But you gave me a twenty…”

And so they danced and they laughed and they danced. And it was the morning and they were in their seats and everything was right. The ritual was in place and he danced with her and she with him. And he stole looks and then so did she.

The people stood in line for their coffees and the traffic sped along Sunset Blvd. and though they didn’t know it they too were part of the dance. They danced this dance together. They all danced in California, in the wine colored grass.

And You Will Know The Sound Of My Voice

2009-05-20T15:36:00.000-07:00

'You call that love in French but it's just Frenchette,

I've been to France so let's just dance.

I get all the love I need in a luncheonette, in just one glance so let's just dance.

I can't get the kind of love that I want or that I need so let's just dance.'

She needed ones that wouldn't hurt, wouldn't bind. She didn't want open toes for she thought her toes especially disgusting, even worse then most and she did so hate feet. She felt them foolish, feet, wished she could make do without them a crazy a conceit as that might be. When getting a manicure she would need shield her eyes if a pedicure were happening in too close a proximity.

Why this abhorrent reaction to feet? She was a bi-ped, the DNA saw to that. There must have been some childhood incident, a viewed case of elephantiasis, some poor soul with blown up appendages and disfigured yellow toenails, but she could only imagine for she had no recall of ever having witnessed anything of this like.

And was it not queer that for all her distaste for feet, in turn, her fascination and crazed obsession for shoes? She didn't suffer bad shoes lightly. She might become apoplectic at the sight of a Birkenstock or man's sandal of any description. In which world not connected by extreme proximity to a large body of water was it acceptable to wear a sandal? In her mind the sight of a person, sandal clad riding a two-wheeled vehicle, be it motorized or not, was no less a traumatic experience to witness then homicide or worse.

She had tired of the Ugg boots craze even before their ubiquitous rise. She thought the sloppy boot look a destruction of the female form. Slippers, no heeled chinese dance slippers, embroidered or in plain black canvas, abhorrent. Fuck Me pumps, tired. It just went on this obsession with the do's and don'ts of foot wear. A man in faux work boots, over-wrought sneakers, topsiders, debilitating.

The classics please. The classics and nothing but. For a man, real work boots: Redwings. Black gas station shoes, white tennis shoes, wingtips or brogues of any ilk. A tight ankle boot but not too PFC or prissy, a little less then Beatle was just fine. For the women, there were many a fine choice. Quality, form, ankles displayed by a swift lift in the arch. Leather, polished to a sheen. Heels dramatic or subtle. The line was clear for women but she always knew on which side of that line a woman's shoe would fall. It was instantaneous.

As she canvassed the stock on the shelf her mind wandered to places those shoes might lead her. In this pair, a dinner, a funeral in that. A strut, a stroll, a walk, resting upon an ottoman. The mind flew. The eyes this pair might catch, the stealth elegance of that. There were limitless scenarios and she was wont to explore them all.

She pulled a pair of Indian Red Oxfords with a two-inch heel from the display and held them to the light. She then brought them to her nose and inhaled deeply of the leather. She could smell the craftsmanship, and her mind she was transported to the factory in Italy, and then into the home of the cordwainer. The smells of risotto and the scream of babies. This was the end to her quest. She was solid that she had come across the purpose of her quest.

In a haze she procured the correct size from the shopgirl, she was barely cognizant of her participation in the purchase. She was led to the front of the store and the girl began to tally her acquisition. She tried her best to communicate but was unable so totally was she locked into her mania. She handed across her credit-card and to stem the rise in her emotions she averted her gaze to the front of the store.

As she stood there trying to hurry her endeavor but being unable to possess the tools to do so she averted her gaze to the front door of the shop. It swung open. A man entered.

"Do ya'all sell man's shoes heeere?"

Her eyes scanned the obvious tourist so out of his element as to be a shock to the senses. On his head a trucker's hat. His tee- shirt trumpeted his fandom of Dave Matthews. His shorts, in khaki green, and on his feet, sandals. Birkenstock sandals.

As she pulled into the driveway of her home she thought to herself. 'Perhaps in two days it will be safe to go back to that store and pick up my credit-card.' As for the shoes. That fantasy would never return.

Snow Girl

2009-05-16T21:22:00.000-07:00

'Strong in the shadows

But you cannot leave your room...

Tick tick hammer and nail

Tick tick hammer and nail'

"Aint it the sad fucking truth" she said under her breath, afraid that the guy across from her at the cafe table might actually hear her and offer even more comment.

"So the guys a scared little boy, what's the big deal? A lot of those mid-west dudes are soft like that. You know, afraid what mommy might think and all."

She wanted to reach across and smack her friend right in the mug. Split a lip, bleed a nose. What the fuck did he know anyways? And so what if she had confided in him the intimate details of her failed romance? That was no reason for him to speak so truthfully on the subject.

"You think?" she said casually so as not to expose the nausea percolating in her belly.

"Oh fuck yes, you kidding me? This guy is obviously a soft boiled chump. I mean, shit, I know you guys were, you know, together and all and I'm not saying like he's a bad dude or nothing, I'm just saying that in this particular matter, the matter of you and him, well he's a spineless little puss."

She had congratulated herself, perhaps a little early, on how she had handled the dissolution of her relationship. There had been none of the requisite violence or restraining orders, she hadn't yelled or thrown a fit, and had been possessed of an equanimity virgin to her to that time. She was feeling a need to pop that cherry and fast. On who or what was not particularly important.

"Well I say fuck" she hissed.

"Fuck what?"

"How does everything sound to you?"

"You mean as in fuck me too, you know along with everything else you are saying fuck to?"

"For the past five minutes I've had my fists clenched and your face in my mind."

"Geeze. Really?"

"Fuck it. Of course really. Fuck him, fuck you, fuck everything" she had passed seething and was beginning the start of a low boil.

"Whoa babe, what have I got to do with all this? I'm just being a bro."

"I feel like I'm gonna barf."

"Listen I'm not going to tell you not to barf, or how to feel. But answer me this, have you ever had your heart broken before?"

"Fuck yes, so what?"

"Did you get over it?"

"So what if I did? Doesn't mean anything to me now, now I'm hurt and finally I'm getting mad."

"Well all I'm saying is I've been busted up before too and I'm not busted up now, so maybe you can reconsider bashing in on me and just mellow out. Shit is going to work out. I know these are ugly words to you right now but I'm just saying that there's no reason for you to hurt so much. Have a little faith for fuck's sake is all."

She unclenched her fists and perhaps the nausea subsided a bit.

"Sure I get it. Thanks, I'm not going to smack you, I mean that was just a thought, albeit one I almost went through with, but just a thought none the less."

"You gonna be cool?"

"Yeah, I'm cool."

Maybe her friend was right. Perhaps her dude was a good guy but just a bit of a spineless mid-west wonder. Wasn't his fault he was raised of inferior stock, fuck, it could happen to anyone. Yeah she was cool. No cherry popping for her. It was a new era and none of the old hi-jinks were called for.

"Thanks for talking to me, really. It helped."

"Cool. Call me later maybe we'll hang."

"Sounds good, see ya."

They hugged briefly and parted company.

That fucker, she thought. There was something weird in that casual little hug. As he walked away she thought that on his part that the hug was just a little too casual, more like, well like a hug a guy gives a girl he wants to peel away from the herd. The fucker.

She got in her car. It would only take a few minutes to get to the ex's place. She still had the key.

Now what would be the best thing to destroy?

Kiss Me On The Bus

2009-02-19T14:01:00.000-08:00

Hanging around the back door, in the alley, whetted by desire, and trying to look nonchalant. Maybe there were other girls out there with her, maybe not. She didn't care. She moved her bangs with focused hands to lay perfectly across her brow. Come hither, come hither. The bouncer gave her the 'don't even think of it' eye and she passed back the 'you only wish in your most detestable dreams' look.

Her sweater was doing little to keep the cold from her body but she thought that the effect on her breasts might actually serve a valuable purpose. Remember, no arms folded across the chest when they come out. She worked a piece of gum up and down, she didn't like gum but knew there was an allure to it, sassy, willing, and maybe just a little to the right of innocence. She was a grown woman, almost, but no one need be the wiser.

Whose business was it anyways that she was kind of just hanging out in the alley behind the club? Was there some law against it? And who cared anyways if she broke a little law? She was eighteen and she knew that there was no more powerful person on earth then a beautiful eighteen year-old girl and whatever law there might have been didn't apply to her. That was just a plain fact.

Further down the alley a tour-bus grumbled to life and a cloud of diesel snaked its way toward her. The show had to be over by now, I mean the band was good but there was no way they would be playing encores this late into the night. She tried to stifle a little yawn, not very sexy to be seen half asleep, she needed to project and directly. Maybe she should have taken up smoking. Wasn't it a fact that girls who smoked were more likely to, to, she could only imagine.

She didn't really like the band. Fact was that she had barely heard of them but they were from England and had accents and the magazines all said that they were wild and travelled in a state of perpetual motion. Her life was anything but perpetual motion. It was a staid monotone existence and if not for Cherokee Ebner, she wouldn't have even conceived of such an undertaking. Cherokee regaled her of a night she had spent with a band from Pomona and how much fun and excitement she had experienced. Cherokee had met the band in this very same alley so if a band from Pomona could produce incalculable fun she could only imagine what a band from England would be like.

She had thought about drinking but she didn't like the way it made her stomach feel and again not very cute to be puking while partaking of ribald rock and roll mayhem. She wanted to check a mirror but thought that it would be an obvious give away so she just assumed that she looked better then fine and left it at that.

There was a commotion at the back door of the club but there was only an older guy, maybe thirty, that exited. He was a little overweight and his hair curled ungracefully to the sides of his not to attractive face. He was unshaven and unkempt in a rumbled tan corduroy jacket. There was no fuss made over him and he rushed by her to the tour-bus. Then nothing. She went back to her inner world and thought how great it was going to be to tell Cherokee of this big night.

Then there was a little tap on her shoulder.

"Right then young lady, so the show was alright then was it?"

She had never heard someone use 'right then' twice in a sentence and it sounded even funnier in an English accent.

"I didn't see it."

"Not old enough to get in then were you?"

There he went again with the then were's, and right then's.. It was the rumpled tan jacket guy.

"No, I'm old enough."

"Right then. I can see that."

"I just didn't ...um...I didn't...I didn't get here on time."

"I see. So you're waiting on a friend here are you?"

"You might say that."

"Maybe a friend you've never met before?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"I'm friendly."

This is not what she had in mind. This man, man, was not what she had pictured in her mind.

"Maybe you'd like to think about it on the bus. We could, you know, talk it over."

How could she paint a pretty picture of this to Cherokee? Maybe if she at least got on the bus then she could make her move on a band member.

"I guess so, but my friend is going to be looking for me so..."

"Right then. Your friend. Good on ya....let's go."

Hanging around the back door, in the alley, whetted by desire, and trying to look nonchalant. Maybe there were other girls out there with her, maybe not. She didn't care.

I Only Ever Needed A Reason

2009-02-17T23:00:00.000-08:00

She got off the F Train and then pushed through the crowds rushing to board. She swam upstream, it seemed she was always swimming upstream, battling the legions as they sped to the work of their day. She didn't stop to take it all in though she well could have. It had been six years since last she had chance to step from the F Train. It had been a long cold lonely winter and as she moved through the station her mind rolled away to another place.

Where had they all gone? These people, these friends she had once considered family. There were times when they would have done anything for each other and now, now they were phantoms, phantoms living somewhere above the F Train terminus.

It was never her plan to leave them, or perhaps theirs to leave her, it was just something that happened. As if the weight of the world, the gravity of it all had pulled them apart. They had been runners together, young and bulletproof, but now they were only concepts far from the day.

There was a woosh and then the F Train was gone into the void. She climbed the stairs to the street not really knowing why or what she hoped might be up there. Each step seemed to be a step into the past, the present receding with her every movement. As she stepped onto the street the cold bit down hard and she was transported to that day at Coney Island. The waves, the solitude and the end of the line. The city looked to her as the broken down amusement park had on that day. It was grey and windy and she again thought she could hear the phantoms blowing on the gusts.

She was home and at the same time she was homesick. It was all familiar yet somehow strange and unsettling. Where were the people, the faces, the voices that had so filled that world she once had known? She made a false move to her right and then spun around and made a few tentative steps in the other direction. Where was she going and what was she looking for?

In her mind lived a world. A world that no longer existed and as she stood there frozen and freezing on that street she came to wonder if that world had in reality ever actually existed at all. Perhaps they had always been phantoms and it was only by her belief that they were given corporeal life. She turned once more to the steps and began to make her way down.

She boarded the F Train and would take it to the end of the line. To Coney Island.

You Watch Them Come And Go

2009-01-29T13:02:00.000-08:00

"Are you some sort of heartless bastard?"

"No. I mean why would you say that?"

"Golf? Really?"

"What am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know, but you're sister just died for god's sake. And you go golfing?"

"And what would you have me do?"

"I don't know? Mourn maybe?"

"Who said I wasn't mourning?"

"That is some sort of weird mourning, on the golf course."

"Listen, my sister's dying is sad beyond words for sure. She has two daughters and I'm sure her husband still has some cognitive abilities, and their loss is I am sure great."

"I'll say."

"But as far as I'm concerned, I'm fine."

"You're fine? Really?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I didn't die."

"That's cold."

"Is it? Really?"

"Of course it is."

"By what standards? By the standards that we are told to ascribe? You see this isn't about me. Yes I lost a sister, it means little that we weren't close, fact is I haven't spoke to her in years, but she was my sister and I would be lying if I said that I didn't have a familial love for her, of course I did. But you see this world does not center on me. I know this might be a stretch to expect you to see my reasoning in this but still let me do my best to explain."

"Please do."

"It's like this. For me to pretend that this is the end of the earth, to make the death of my sister about me then I would in fact be placing myself in a position of power. You would think by that kind of reaction that I would think that I had some control over the situation, that I could know whether the time was right for her pass, to in essence, play God. I am not God. I have shed tears and my thoughts and prayers are consumed with my sister but it isn't about me. I am but a man whose sister passed and that is all."

"Kinda harsh maybe?"

"I disagree. Everyone has a dear one pass, and there is inherent sadness in this but I remain resolute in the spiritual notion that I assert no control over these things and that I need embrace the circle of life for good or bad."

"I think I get it. If I deny the fact of death then I might also not place birth is its proper perspective."

"Either it is all beautiful or none of it is."

"I can see your point. Whether I agree or not I'm still not sure."

"That's fair."

"Damn sorry bout your sister."

"It's a bummer no doubt."

I Am The Numbers

2009-01-20T22:32:00.000-08:00

How could this happen? He was assured it couldn't happen this way. Every voice he questioned echoed the notion that he was righteous, on solid footing and untouchable. It was if the rules had been changed after the game was well over and now they had dragged him from the locker room and into the penalty box. There had to be a way out of all this, there always had been. His father would come to his rescue, he always had in the past.

He was home scott free or so he thought. Quiet on the ranch for a few years as the dust settled around him he had lain low and out of the limelight and had receded from common thought. He was to a degree satisfied with his low profile for those in his immediate sphere still treated him with the regard he had once known, that he had once known on the grandest of all stages. It was surely enough but a part of him yearned for that place at the center of the international cyclone he had once commanded.

It started in subtle ways. An interview with a foreign publication, a comment on national affairs. The responses from afar fueled him and he began to become restless. Where was his?. Where was his reward, his power, his place amongst the leaders of the world? He should have been heralded an august elder statesmen due the requisite honors and respect his position afforded those who had come before him.

It seemed innocuous enough. An invitation to travel abroad for a meeting of a charitable organization he had supported and had continued to support. He was to be the featured honoree and this seemed an opportunity to reintroduce himself to the world anew. He would reinvent himself as the wise tenured philanthropist. He had plans finalized to travel overseas to the event and in those weeks prior to his departure his demeanor lightened and he found himself holding his head high with a new confidence.

As he flew over the Atlantic he looked out the window and travelled back to a place in time when he commanded all he could see. Where when he would fly the world had watched and waited. He felt a trace of that prism of focus once again and filled with this regained impetus he calmed further for power did calm him and then he was asleep.

The jet touched down on the tarmac and taxied to the far end of the runway. He still garnered special security and so he deplaned in a hangar tightly secured by uniformed officers. As he stepped from the plane he knew he was back. His step was spry and he bounded off with vigorous élan. He reached out his hand to greet his host and as he did he was surrounded by the uniformed officers.

How could this happen? He was assured it couldn't happen this way. There had to be a way out of all this, there always had been. He looked around at the faces before him. There was much international interest in his trial. The Hague was famous for trials of war criminals. Every voice he questioned echoed the notion that he was righteous, on solid footing and untouchable.

His father would come to his rescue, he always had in the past.

First You Say You Will And Then You Don't

2009-01-17T22:58:00.000-08:00

He took the zine and tossed it with disgust below his desk into the reed-weave basket he used for trash. He had little respect for what the creator believed was the art it contained inside. He thought how misled so many of the people of the day were, that their every moment, and photographic document of that time was of such critical importance that it needed dissemination to the public at large. This infatuation with self, the self revelatory peering at one's own existence, this egoism was a cancer spread far and wide amongst the people of the day.

He thought that nothing good could come of this behavior, and then again to the schoolyard where a common slander bandied about was the curse of conceit. The zine was a look back at the self-perceived triumphs of the creator, covering the previous year. The pictures, rendered poorly by some inferior Kinko's process on colored paper, might in another light be seen as an embarrassment. There were some short words fore and aft the collages and the tone they set was as if a gift from the heavens, a gift only shared with the utmost solemnity with the mere mortals who might with great fortune have chance to read them.

He thought for a moment if he should keep this artifact but then only for a flash. It was trash and no amount of protestations from the words contained within it could sway him from this certainty. The audacity for one to make such proclamations about their own existence stirred in him feelings of distaste and ire. Who was the person and then why again should he care to purchase a front row seat to this obvious myth making?

A pox on us all this digital age. A time where anyone could, with only the slightest effort, proclaim themselves a poet of the visual form. There was no skill needed for use of these cameras. These auto exposure wonders thought themselves on par with Stieglitz and Aget, of Cartier-Bresson and Man-Ray. These were Kodak people thinking themselves masters of the Hasselblad. Paint a box with a style you saw in a Mexican folklore book and now you too can refer to yourself as an artist. Where were the ideas, the thought, the passion.

He thought how style had replaced skill and precision had surpassed insight. Who were these so-called artistes, and had no one amongst them even a modicum of talent or even to a lesser extent, humility. The self-satisfied, the self-reverential, the self-absorbed.

He pulled the zine from his trash basket and set it on his desk next to where he suffered behind words. He vowed to keep it there, next to him, in plain view, lest he too become as they. To become full of himself. To believe that darkest part of his psyche, the part that told him that what he did was of import, that it made him special and apart from his fellows. He would see that zine every night and in him it would foster humility or at least to the best result that was possible.

"You sufferwords are conceited, and have koodies too."

Just Once More Say It Again Will You

2009-01-15T22:15:00.000-08:00

"They're Luxoticas."

"Pretty fucking sharp."

"Yeah, I went looking for dead -stock and this optician pulls 'em out and I'm like wow those are sharp but when I looked at the brand it said, Luxotica. I don't know about you but I've never heard of Luxotica. Thought they were cheapos though they did look pretty tight, so I tell the guy, thirty bucks is alot for these, I mean what the fuck is Luxotica. The guy looked at me like I was a chump, I was playing off like I knew what I was talking about, you know Bausch&Lomb and all and so this guy tells me that Luxotica is actually a famous Italian spectacle manufacturer that makes all the designer glasses. You know, Dolce, and Chanel, fact is they bought Ray-Ban a while back and goes on to say Luxoticas, the brand is the rare dope."

"How much?"

"Thirty bucks."

"I might interject the word score here."

"Thanks for the ups I'm pretty chuffed about the whole thing."

"You should be."

"So what have you got going?"

"Nothing much, I don't know, I'm working and the wife and girls are good but I just don't know if it's enough."

"How so?"

"I don't know if I like my job, don't get me wrong I'm grateful and all, in fact I'm mind blown I have a job that pays so well and all, but there is something missing. I keep telling the wife I want to take a sex tour of Cuba on my fortieth birthday. Ridiculous right? I mean I've told her so much it isn't going to come as any surprise if I actually do it."

"Sounds like a little crisis of faith."

"Yeah, maybe. But inside that space between my ears there is some raw stuff going on. I mean I really want to get into some taxi dancing."

"You mean those joints downtown."

"Yeah, buy a ticket and dance with some broad, lean all over her and such."

"You know, I don't know if you've ever been with a prostitute, but it is a pretty fucking empty experience."

"I know, it isn't the sex I'm after, it's just that there is some raw stuff in me and this is how my sick fucking mind plays that stuff out."

"Like Iggy said, gimme some danger."

"Could be. Could be."

"Success can be a bitch if you know what I mean."

"In what way?"

"Well if you're not spiritually ready to handle it, well it can fuck with you. All that I don't deserve it, or what if I lose it."

"Yeah, could be."

"Maybe you have a case of what I like to call is that all thereism. Like you get to the top of the mount and when you get there you find that all it is is the top of a mountain."

"I think I'm living that."

"Right so you want to tear shit down 'cause that's where you come from and that is what you're used to."

"Did I mention those were some solid frames."

"Maybe you just need some new glasses to see your life through. Here try these on."

I Don't Want To Hear About Your Uncle

2009-01-13T14:54:00.000-08:00

Just sit there by the side of the road. Don't smoke because that is in actuality doing something, though very little for sure, but it is something and you should be doing nothing as you sit. The street was none too busy but in reality this city was never what you could really call a busy place. There were a car or two and perchance a pedestrian might amble by but it was a place to sit. As suitable a spot as any to set the carcass down.

Now close your eyes, he said. No, first get comfortable, or as comfortable as one can be sitting on a concrete curb. Keep your feet tucked in close for you'd hate to have someone drive by and panini them. Alright, set. Now close the eyes. If you have to, force them shut as they may try to flutter open. Alright, set down, eyes closed, now listen for a moment. That's right, it was a car, maybe a mid-nineties Toyota, now forget it. You hear that bird, visualize it, and now let it go. So what, they're roofing a block away, dismiss that entry. Block it out, block it all out.

Quiet, be quiet. Don't hear, don't see, don't feel. That song in your head, yes Elvis Costello can write a melody to keep you singing in the shower, but forget him. Let it pass into silence. Just sit and be empty. If you must run a sound through your mind. Choose something with no meaning, maybe a prayer in a foreign language, or just anything, just make sure it has no meaning. The seekers refer to it as a mantra, but you don't need a mantra, you need to be quiet.

Is it still in there? When a thought comes let it enter and fade, do not focus on it, do not fear it, just let it pass right through. Unwind the spring that is wound so tight inside you. You did not wind that spring, she wound it for you. She turned and turned the key until every other thought was wound away. Do not think of her. Do not think of her smell or of the spark in her eye. Do not think of how she had said she loved you. Do not think of your tears. You are here to be still not to think of those tears.

You are not here to cry, you are here in this place, at this time, to be still. To sit. Do not replay those cruel things she said. Do not try to rewrite your protestations as she left. If those thoughts come simply let them pass. Stop holding onto the chances and the false hopes. Do not see clearly how bad she was for you. You are not here to see how mean and cold she was, that is for a time and a place, but not this time and place. This time and place, this curb on this street, is a time and a place to be still and quiet and a not a place to cry.

Then just do the best you can. Try and be still. Try and keep your eyes shut tight though the tears may try to force them open. If an Elvis Costello song plays in your ears make sure it wasn't one of her favorites. If you replay a scene then don't replay one that makes the tears flow harder. Just try and be still. To be quiet. To sit on this curb on this street and unwind that spring. The spring she wound so tight. Don't think of how she had wound the spring and then walked off with the key. Don't think. Just be quiet on this curb in this time and place.

Is There A Someone I'd Like To Think So

2009-01-12T23:31:00.000-08:00

Bryan checked the mirror, pulled his bow tie around his collar and grabbed the thistle ends and tied it. He ran his long black comb through one last time, the flip in the front of his strong oiled hair flopped over perfectly across his forehead. His form seemed as if it had been waiting for this day for his black tux to find its proper use. Elegance, savoir-faire, a few swift graceful steps past debonair. Bryan was a sight and he knew it.

There was commotion somewhere beyond his door. A low rumble intruded on his moment of self revelation. He considered the mirror again and though he identified his image he was still taken with the totality of it. There was a wrap of knuckles on the door and he was brought back from his thoughts. Remember the outro, don't jump the third stanza, hang back and let it just come. He spun and pirouetted perfectly. He brought his hands to the sides of his face and thought to himself if not now then never.

He grabbed the door handle and with casual aplomb left the room. He turned himself glacial. Immediately he was besieged and though every bit of him wanted to respond he would not allow himself that weakness. There was a man dressed in a pink feathered stole with matching leather trousers, his hair and long blond except for the pate which had been shaved clean and they shared a knowing look. It was just about that time. Assembled just a few feet away were three more men dressed as if they were set to court a room full of Martian princesses. It was indeed the time.

Bryan stood there, before him an ocean of red fabric. He grasped the microphone and caressed it in his hands. He closed his eyes and quieted himself. He knew how to do this. He had faith that the five men behind him were ready and the knot in his stomach told him that it was ready to be unburdened. There was a voice over a loud speaker. He heard their name and felt proud to be English. It was time.

The curtain parted and so the band began to play. He listened and as he did the tightness inside him disappeared. He went blind and all thought ceased. Without the slightest effort he opened his eyes and then his throat and he turned into the man in the tuxedo.

Sweat pored from him. Time became immaterial. The spotlight dimmed and the stage went red...

I would do anything for you, I would climb mountains.

I would swim all the oceans blue. I would walk a thousand miles, reveal my secrets.

More than enough for me to share.

I would put roses round our door, sit in the garden, growing potatoes by the score.

Shake your hair girl with your ponytail.

The halo of the spotlight collapsed about him. A roar of appreciation rushed forth. It was done.

Bryan placed the tuxedo down on a chair and toweled off the last of the sweat from his body. He was spent. There was a wrap on the door...

"Yeah, mate, a pint would be good right 'bout now."

The Shelter People

2009-01-11T00:00:00.000-08:00

He spit hard like he couldn't countenance the sputum staying in his mouth for one fucking moment longer. He blasted it to the floor under his barstool and in the dark and crowded room he did so in complete privacy. A J&B on the rocks would have served as well but the damn kid bartender was playing for tips with the mister sweet stuff and the ha-ha-has at the far end of the bar, and so expelling the filth from his mouth was his only recourse.

It might be some good time before he got his drink for he had long since lost any ability to pull off any charm inside a bar of any type, and in the faux seedy bar he was in, there was no cool left in him, certainly not enough to get the attention of the chump behind the bar . He had zero cool guy cache and was a couple of steps aside from pulling off a beautiful loser chic. He was there for business, the business of drink, and though he might have imagined himself in more suitable environs for that activity he had to roll with the eggs in this carton. He was there to wash the filth from his mouth, from his mind. There would be no chit-chat, my young lady aren't you special witty repartee on this night. Those days had receded well past memory. No talk of of current affairs or news events, christ he had even lost interest in sporting events.

He wanted a drink, simple as that. His state was a perfect confluence of desire and need, though the need might have had the balance weighted in its favor to some degree. Had he that chump tender's attention he might just explain how damn simple it was. He was the patron and the bartender had the drinks. All the dick with the 'now' hairdo had to do was get a glass, tall, a few ice cubes, and then fill it, to the top you fucking chiseler, take the money and then vanish for a moment. Then repeat, and repeat, and repeat until his money was gone. Damn simple. No need for banter or tip angling, he'd tip just fine if only that punk would follow the easy instructions. Now if only he could spark this simple application into action. The prick.

Just as his patience was about to blind him from civilized social behavior a woman pressed herself, wedged herself, into the small space to his left. She didn't seem to mind the ugly stare of the person she had displaced and then she turned and looked at him with a casual I could give a flying fuck ease.

"I don't know about you, but I'm drinking."

He didn't want to but seeing as she was almost in his lap he felt obligated to respond.

"That would be the idea but little mister hair in the face has made it his life's work not to pay this side of the bar any attention."

"Oh poor baby. Maybe you just lost your touch."

"If you find it let me know."

"Sit still, oh shit let me guess...Scotch rocks. Dewars...Cutty..."

"J&B."

"Close. You're pretty fucking obvious you know that."

"I'm not trying to be a riddle I'm trying to get drunk, and you have a filthy mouth."

"Oh I'm sorry it's so dark in here I couldn't see you blush."

"Beautiful."

He slinked back in his seat. Perfect, now he had a little buddy. He didn't want a buddy, even if she was, for him in this day, much beyond what he might think he could land. What he wanted, needed, was a drink.

Again he spat forcefully, she noticed.

"Manners are for people who don't drink. Give me a ten..."

He paused as his hand was in his pocket...

"Don't worry tough guy I'll get the next."

As he went to place the money on the bar he was surprised to find the drinks already awaiting the bill.

They drank in silence and solidly and as she had said the next round was there as soon as the cubes clacked against his teeth. Then he got one and then she picked up a round. The filth was still in his mouth but it was warmer and somewhat subtler. It was a successful drink to this point. They shared more then fifteen but less then thirty words and she was, as if it were even possible, edging closer to him.

She laughed at something he thinks he might have said so he felt obliged to maybe laugh a little too. He didn't feel like laughing, he hadn't come there that night to laugh. He had come to drink. Then he felt it. She looked away from him, calling the bartender or such but there was now a hand between his legs. She felt around a began to rub him. Nothing.

She looked at him casually, more interested in her drink it seemed then him.

"Listen babe. I guess I can say it isn't awful sitting here drinking with you. No offense but it may as well be you as anyone else but for that.."

"What?"

"That below the bar stuff. Like my life, that down there is like a genie's lamp with two and a half out of three wishes rubbed out of it. Why don't we just drink."

"I can wish can't I?"

"Sure babe, wish away. Maybe I'll turn into a frog before this is all done."

"I'd like that."

He woke the next day and spit hard into the porcelain. He spit hard like he couldn't countenance the sputum staying in his mouth for one fucking moment longer. He checked himself for warts.

Please Cover The Up

2009-01-09T13:13:00.000-08:00

"What are you eating?"

"These?"

"Yes, those."

"Some tamari almonds."

"Tamari almonds? How do those differ from just your average almond?"

"Well they're soaked in tamari."

"What the fuck is tamari? And why woud you soak an almond in it?"

"Tamari is a fermented soy thing, a flavoring, kinda like soy sauce."

"How come I've never heard of it?"

"Perhaps because you're sheltered?"

"Sheltered?"

"Okay, so you're not sheltered. Maybe the joys of tamari have just slipped past you?"

"Yeah, maybe so. So what does it taste like?"

"I don't know, it just tastes like tamari. It's not sweet, savory for sure, but there is a tang to it, perhaps due to the fermentation."

"Alright."

"Now that I think of it, you know it is hard to describe a sense without referring to another sense. I mean I can liken it to another sense or get poetic about it but words can never exact the description of a sense."

"Writers can do it, if they're really good."

"Suppose so."

Can Tomorrow Ever No

2009-01-08T21:49:00.000-08:00

Like shaking off a coat or road dust of mailing an overdue bill, some things gave her a real sense of deep satisfaction. It wasn't necessarily the act in and of itself that gave her the feeling of accomplishment rather the natural act of doing, of unburdening, of getting rid of. Washing the dishes, doing laundry, the mundane things that though obvious gave her a sublime sense of satisfaction.

She rolled into her parking space and saw that her neighbor had begun what seemed to be a unsightly collection of empty cardboard boxes. They didn't seem to be standing ready for a move or any singular purpose, no it was more like an abstract art project gone wrong. There might have been ten boxes in various states of disrepair and that they were packed into the cramped parking space. Some showed signs of a cars heft.

Her ire was somewhat rankled and she began to conjure a resentment toward the woman in 207. It seemed to her that this neighbor, a neighbor she had hardly spoked ten words to in the years they had lived in the same building, that this neighbor was being disrespectful to her and that with just the slightest effort should have made the remove of these trashed boxes. The unmitigated gall of this, such an uncaring act, the audacity of the neighbor in 207, well this act was worthy of reproach as far as she could reconcile.

Had not this neighbor any respect for her fellows? And in what kind of world did she consider this behavior acceptable? Words would have to be shared, measured and unemotional to be sure, but words nonetheless. Was it not her duty, obligation, to help set this woman on a righteous course? And if if not she, then who should grasp this mantle of community and set things to right?

The parking space being empty she assumed her neighbor not at home and so she exited her car, resentment tucked deftly in her back pocket and went to her own apartment. She was greeted by a pile of unopened mail and in the kitchen a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. She got down to work. Bill, bill, notice, check. Sink of suds, and then methodically plates, cups, pans, silverware. A quick once over of the bathroom and before she knew it the day's light was gone. She went to her car for the stamps she needed to send off her bills, and though it had slipped her mind while she had toiled, the car from 207 was now in its place and again her resentment seethed. The boxes lowest to the ground were pinned beneath the front bumper of the brown Toyota CRX.

There was no time like the present so though not bristling, still with purpose in her stride, she made her way upstairs to 207. A firm but not un-polite wrap on the door and a moment later it swung open.

Her neighbor was a woman in her late thirties but in her eyes was the sadness of one so much older. Her right foot cast in plaster and a questioning but welcoming smile on her lips.

It was during the second cup of tea before she felt the comfort to ask of these boxes that had so set her off. They of course were only a sidebar to the story that needed telling and so the tale of them only made the neighbor in 207 that much more real.

She took a moment and thought of her travel to this place in 207. Of her shortcomings and her rush to judgement. Of her lack of faith in her fellows. These were not the boxes of the neighbor in 207. These were her boxes. They were the trash that she carried. They were only embodied in this inconsequential cardboard in the parking space of the neighbor in 207. Could she help? Would it be all right if she disposed of the boxes for the neighbor in 207?

Like shaking off a coat of road dust or mailing an overdue bill, some things gave her a real sense of deep satisfaction. It wasn't necessarily the act in and of itself that gave her the feeling of accomplishment rather the natural act of doing, of unburdening, of getting rid of. Washing the dishes, doing laundry, throwing away a stack of cardboard boxes, the mundane things that though obvious gave her a sublime sense of satisfaction.

Yes Virginia There Is A Tomorrow

2009-01-07T23:19:00.000-08:00

Fixing To Out The Laundry

2008-12-23T16:56:00.000-08:00

Pow. Pow. Pow.

Shoot 'em up dead mom. I shooted them all. I shooted them all just for you mom.

He ran through the laundromat stepping over the fallen bodies barely able to keep from screaming with glee. He would have screamed, he knew he would, but he had promised mom that he wouldn't scream anymore. Big boys didn't scream unless they really meant it. Meant it if they were in trouble and he was so far from being in trouble that he thought he might be able to get away with a really loud yelp but decided not to press his luck lest the yelp be misconstrued as a little scream.

He wanted to be a good boy. A real good boy. A good boy for mom. A great boy for mom.

When he was little he thought he wasn't such a good boy. He screamed all the time and then at the worst of times. He didn't want to scream. When he screamed mom didn't like it but he just didn't know any better. At least that was what mom told him. Mom said that he wasn't a bad boy he was just a good boy that screamed too much. She said if he didn't scream then he would be more then a good boy that he would be a great boy and he wanted to be a great boy. He wanted to be a great boy for mom.

Pow. Pow. Pow.

Shoot 'em up dead mom. I shooted them all. I shooted them all just for you mom.

He put his gun away and looked over at mom. Mom was folding clothes and didn't seem to notice that he had shot all the bad guys dead. He had shot them all, every single one. He was a great boy and he wouldn't let the bad guys get to mom. Little kids had to protect moms when they would go to the laundromat. Everyone knew that. He was a good shot. Mom was folding the clothes he wore to school. She held up his pants and examined the tear in the leg. He remembered getting the tear. He had screamed when the branch ripped into his leg. He had screamed really loud.

Pow. Pow. Pow.

Shoot 'em up dead mom. I shooted them all. I shooted them all just for you mom.

Mom said it was all right if he screamed when his leg got hurt. He didn't want to scream because great boys didn't scream but he just couldn't help himself. It wasn't like when he was a little kid when he would just scream for no good reason. Mom had held him close and said it was okay that he screamed and he thought he knew what she meant. She said that he was a great boy and even great boys had to scream sometimes. He still didn't like that he had screamed. He hoped mom wasn't just saying that to make him feel okay for just being a good boy because he wanted so badly to be a great boy. To be a great boy for mom.

Pow. Pow. Pow.

Shoot 'em up dead mom. I shooted them all. I shooted them all just for you mom.

Mom was folding the very last of the clothes and right before she had time to finish some bad guys came in the laundromat. He took his guns out and like any great boy should, he shot and shot until they were all dead. Mom saw him and when she looked at him, well she looked at him like he wasn't a great boy but the best boy that ever was. He put his guns away and felt as if he were a great boy once again. A great boy because mom should have a great boy for a son.

Pow. Pow. Pow.

Shoot 'em up dead mom. I shooted them all. I shooted them all just for you mom.

Babul Bobbles But He Doesn't Fall Down

2008-12-16T15:32:00.000-08:00

The phone rang and as she turned over in bed to reach for it her eyes cast upon the digital alarm-clock and she was taken aback by the early hour. Any phone call this early was usually bad news or worse. She expected the latter.

"Hello..." she groggled out.

"Morning sunshine."

"It's fucking six in the morning!"

It was only Erich. Fucking Erich.Didn't he know that she had had a rough time slipping off the night before, it was well past one before she lost consciousness for real.

"Oh yeah right, kinda early huh?"

"Hell yes it's early."

"Been up for hours."

"And how does this affect me?"

"I guess it doesn't but I was bored. You see everyone is asleep at this hour and I had no one to talk to."

"Got a little news for ya, I was one of the people who was asleep."

"I know, I know, but hey you love me so I just figured I'd call someone who wouldn't stay mad at me for long."

"The high price of love."

"You win the prize babe."

"What the hell you doing waking up at such a rude hour?"

"Jet lag. Do you think there was jet lag before they had jets?"

"Are you high? Of course not and beside that you're just trying to change the damn subject."

"What was the subject?"

"Oh I don't know, maybe how you thought it was okay to wake me so you could have someone to talk to."

"Oh right. I thought we already went over that, and that your love for me trumps any inconvenience that this call might have, in your opinion, caused?"

"So you thought."

"You didn't have to answer."

"True, and I don't have to stay on the line."

"Oh don't go babe, c'mon humor me just a little longer. Coffee?"

"No."

"No humor or no coffee?"

"The humor is perceived at your discretion and as for the coffee, no fucking way. It's lights out as soon as I hang up."

"Um okay."

"And?"

"So?"

"So what?"

"Don't you want to know how my trip was?"

"There is a part of me that wants to say yes but an even greater part of me that says, at this evil hour of day, no fucking way."

"You don't want to hear about terrorists and how I smacked them down and crushed them with my righteous fury?"

"Sounds like your the one still dreaming."

"About the beautiful Hindu princess who showed me the ways of the Kama Sutra?"

"Oh do go on..."

"How I consulted on a remodel of the Taj Majal?"

"Sounds great, really, but I'm going back to sleep. If you want to tell me of your storied adventures you'll have to do it on my time and not yours."

"Really, you won't stay up for me?"

"Love is overrated."

"Coffee?"

"Uh-uh."

"I'm coming over."

"That doesn't mean I'll let you in."

"Love. What about love?"

"Its got its limits."

"Call me when you get up. Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks for talking to me."

"Nice save."

"Still love me?"

"Maybe a little less...but, yeah, sure."

"Call me later."

"Okay."

Click.

She rolled over and closed her eyes. She tried to sleep but her mind wouldn't let her. In her mind she could see the Hindu princess and the terrorists, the Taj and goofy Erich. Ah the price of love.

The Cat Ate Its Tongue

2008-11-17T16:03:00.000-08:00

Dressed up like a peacock on Halloween, she entered the room and destroyed a pose not caring if she was understood or not. There was nothing casual about her or her appearance. She was shamelessly overdressed for the evening but gave the impression as if she were not in the least concerned as to how she might be interpreted. There was a bottle of red wine spilled in the corner slowly seeping into the grain of the wood floor. She lighted a cigarette and it looked like the first affected move she had made.

Oh youth, thought the older man. He no longer dressed he just wore. My god, did I ever look so vibrant? In fact he had. He had once wore his wife's skirts out about town. He had died his hair blond and fashioned foolish designs with his chin hair. Now he wore only classics. No labels or printed tee shirts, he knew better and didn't think himself a billboard for any manufacturer or cause. He didn't feel the need to have a hip or witty slogan, a logo or design on his chest. He wore only the most basic Levi 501. Have I become a curmudgeon? he thought as he sat taking in the scene. I don't find the need to have my jeans pre-worn or imbued with gimmicky stitching on the back pockets, am I just old or is there some solid reasoning behind my views? The young girl brought her pose and sat down beside him.

"Hi, I'm Catherine."

"Erich, my pleasure young lady."

"Erich with a c or ch?"

"Well how astute of you to know the difference and with a ch now that you asked."

"You looked like the ch type."

"I pray that is not an insult."

"Oh no. The smart ones have the ch. The jocks have the c."

"Well you are wrong on both counts, I am neither a smart guy nor a jock."

"Yeah right."

"So let me guess. You are in the show biz?"

"Actress..and..."

"And you write."

"That obvious?"

"Just had an inkling. That's what happens when you stick around this town long enough."

"How long?"

"Take my word babe, I'm old."

"You don't look old."

"Daddy complex?"

"Do you want me to have one?"

"Not that I have even considered the notion, but it would be my only angle."

"Angle on what?"

"Listen young lady, I'm being the nice guy here. Don't go winding me up and then play me like the other chumps in this town."

"Sorry. Sometimes I don't even know I'm doing it."

"Believe me you got the package dear. You seem like a sharp girl and you obviously have some pretty going for you but why the acting thing? Really?"

"Company town right? I'm young and hot enough, so if some jerk wants to give me some money to pose around, well I'm not the girl who's going to stop them."

"Job of convenience?"

"People do worse things for convenience."

"Agreed. So I was sitting here watching that wine seep into the wood over there and I was thinking to myself, I was thinking if I was a truly an old curmudgeon for thinking that the fashion of the day was so misguided. You know, pre-worn jeans, labels and logos on everything?"

"You dress nice."

"Right, thanks. But that isn't the point. Am I being an old fuck for thinking most people dress like corporate shills or am I right."

"First, maybe you shouldn't worry yourself too much on the topic. Is it the fashion you are concerned with or this self conscious notion that you are old?"

"Really?"

"I agree, I think most of what passes as fashion today is lame, but you know I have some of it in my wardrobe, big fucking deal. It just isn't that important to me. As for you thinking you are too old, well maybe you are. I came over here because I thought you were really good looking man and you have a style, solid but smart, but you are so insecure about yourself you couldn't just feel me. It's not like I'm not cool with you now but by bringing up my obvious daddy complex you kinda deflated the whole fantasy. "

"Well...I..."

"Don't trip."

I Don't Really Want To Say

2008-11-15T21:36:00.000-08:00

"Hello, can I please have the number you are calling from?"

"323..839..2250."

"How can I help you?"

"Well I don't know why it is but my phone doesn't seem to be working."

"What phone are you calling from? May I have that number so if we get disconnected I can call you back."

"Oh...I'm calling from 323..839..2250."

"That is the number you are reporting that you are having trouble with?"

"Yeah, right. I mean, that is the phone I'm calling from."

"I believe you said that this number was not in service?"

"Well I did. I mean it isn't working."

"But you are speaking to me on that line now?"

"Yes. Yes I am."

"Sir I am having trouble understanding your problem. If that line is not working then how are you speaking to me on it?"

"You see, it's kinda hard to explain."

"I see."

"Well the trouble is, well I don't get incoming calls."

"Oh I see. Let me check the line. Please hold while I check the line."

"Okay, I'll do that."

"Hello."

"Yes this is Phil at ATT."

"You're the person I was just talking to on the other line."

"Correct. I just called your phone and as you can see the line is working just fine."

"Are you telling me that just because you called on the other line, that I could click you over, that that means that my phone works?"

"That would make sense."

"It should but answer me this one question."

"What question sir?"

"How come my phone never rings? I mean it has been days since it has rang."

"But you can make outgoing calls?"

"The only one I've tried was calling you."

"Well all the information I have says that your phone is working fine. Perhaps no one has called you?"

"Wow. You think so?"

"There isn't a technical reason to explain why your phone hasn't rang."

"Maybe your right?"

"Try calling someone to see if your phone is operating correctly."

"Who should I call?"

"Anyone. A friend or family member."

"Oh."

"Sorry."

"It's not your fault. How could you know."

"Have a good night sir. This call may have been recorded to insure consumer protections."

No Subterfuge Needed

2008-11-05T12:20:00.000-08:00

The line stretched a block long. Anticipation.

Are we neighbors? We are neighbors.

Are we a community? We are a community.

Are we sacred? We are scared?

Do we believe? We believe.

Is there hope? There is hope.

Could this be? This could be.

What's so funny about peace, love and understanding?

Can we move on? We will move on.

Will they steal our dreams? They can only try.

Is this still a country of the people by the people? For better or worse it is.

Are those tears of joy? These are tears of joy.

Is this pride? It is.

The nightmare is over. The nightmare is over.

Who Are The Slipper Men?

2008-11-02T17:36:00.000-08:00

She was tired of losing. She was tired of seeing her people led astray. She was tired of feeling as if she had been cheated. Every time she thought with all her heart that it would be different and each time she was disheartened to realize that once again she was on the side saddled with defeat. She had nearly given up all hope. Nearly.

She might have gone to the extreme and removed herself from this world. God, and only god knew how close she had come to this result but to her the only reason not to take her life was the deep seated fear that once on the other side there were no assurances that in that place she again wouldn't be on the wrong side of things. If there were a way to know she would have stepped out already, but there was no source divine enough to offer her any conclusion she could accept to assuage her assumption of the worst.

There was a book she often read from. It was not a popular book and to her best knowledge she had never met another person who had ever had chance to cast eyes upon it. It wasn't the whole book she would revisit but just certain passages that she could not let be. It wasn't as if she even need see the book for the pages that struck her with stiff resonance would come live before her eyes at the merest thought of them. It came to a point where she would only need to see the words on the page to know for herself that these thoughts, these ideas that were there were not of her imagining.

The thought on those pages gave her no comfort. Though the book was not what one would call a horror book, or mystery, indeed it was non-fiction, but still the words in its pages had the ability to scare her. She never questioned these words. She had often been warned not to believe everything she read but in this instance those caveat's were rendered moot.

The clocks had just been set back and it was an unwelcome surprise seeing the sun set so early. She went to her kitchen and set the kettle up for a cup of tea. In her mind the stories of the book took hold. As the kettle whistled for attention she knew she would soon be seated in her reading chair, the book in her hands. The boiling water transformed the Earl Grey, and the mug transferred heat to the handle. Though the skies were clear, to her there was a steady hard rain falling.

She took the book, thumbed it and didn't even look as it opened up to on a random page. She didn't look for she knew what page she would find. Of course she did and as she looked down there was no surprise that the page coincided directly with the thought she had had as she poured the tea.

It was a page that concerned failure and loss. She knew this tale well and though it gave her no joy in its reading it was a page from her book and so she owned the conceit as written. The words stung her eyes and she tried a sip of tea hoping that it would wash the sour taste the words had left in her mouth. She so wanted to burn the book and every idea contained within it. She wanted a new book, one with a happy ending and joy and humor on every page. She had heard that these books existed but had yet to cast her gaze upon one.

The night wore on and though try as she might the same page of the same book stayed before her eyes. A tale of loss and failure. Of solitude and injustice. She wanted to turn the page. She wished that there was only one book and that it was not the book she held in her hands. Her brain tired of the story and so she drifted off still in the chair.

In her dream she crossed a vast sea and then came upon a quiet shore. She waded through the surf onto the beach of this new world and stood there drinking in the beauty of the landscape. A young girl, a girl who looked much as she did in her youth, approached. In the girl's hand was a bound volume and she reached out to hand it to her. She tried to take the book but her arms would not leave her sides. The little girl opened the book and a bright light emanated from within it. She reached out again and this time grasped the book. Looking down upon the pages she tried to make out the words but the light was too bright. She closed the book then looked to the cover and found that the book was identical to her own book.

She awoke to the light of dawn and found that she had slept in her chair, her book still in her hands. Without much thought, for there were no real thoughts in her head, she opened her book. Again to any random page but as she looked at the page she saw that she did not recognize it. It wasn't a page she could ever remember seeing and so she read from it. It was a funny tale filled with hope and joy. With triumph and compassion. She read on and on until her eyes became heavy again and she fell off to sleep.

She was tired of losing. She was tired of seeing her people led astray. She was tired of feeling as if she had been cheated. Every time she thought with all her heart that it would be different and each time she was disheartened to realize that once again she was on the side saddled with defeat. She had nearly given up all hope. Nearly.

A River Ran Through Me

2008-10-31T08:47:00.000-07:00

You take those years and spill them before you. A stream where only the rocks show through flowing current. The water knows nothing and its course is undeterred by any thought you have. It keeps moving, it keeps moving. The banks seems quiet but as the river ebbs and flows it too changes. Mud turns to clay and then back again as the gravity pulls your feet down to it. The ages, the ages.

The tratorria is famous for veal. The lines are long and the long wood tables are filled with families, fifteen deep, even at the late hour. Little children play and the parents drink red wine. The lure of Roman cuisine, the fortune to order anything from the menu. "Vorrie ensalada mista...no...tu ensalada mista por favore." And wouldn't it be great if they had french fries too. Over and over everywhere upon the Italian boot.

The family around and the foil being burnt. A strange sight, siblings together sharing, checking-out as one. Stealing their youth and happy to do it.

"Leave the drapes open and we'll watch you. She won't have a clue. She's just a groupie and who cares anyway. It will be hilarious." It wasn't. It was sad but the devil was in the garden that night.

"Never ask a black street guy where to score, rule number one, especially in Amsterdam." The first homeless black guy and then the search and the burn were on. In Amsterdam.

"What did you do to me last night?" The coffee house was busy and all around they were lighting up and acting superior. He had confessed that he had taken something from her as she slept and as she returned from a bathroom trip she could feel the odd energy and so asked. "Did you, I mean, did you do something to me in my sleep?" It was awful to know the truth and hear the lie. Questions of logistics and wild boasting were cast aside as the evidence of truth was spoken hurtfully aloud.

As the camera rolled, on the seventh take, he turned and looked at the crew member. "Did you change your hair color? I remember, I think I remember it differently. I often think of you." It was unscripted and spontaneous. It played in the moment and it played for the film. It was mastery of his craft. It was a measure of his lightning bolt genius.

They banged their heads, their shiny black heads, demanding to be heard, to bring their omen. They would not be dissuaded by the time of day, the new day. It made little sense at the time. It would be a full week before their message, their foretelling, would show itself, these ravens sent from the imagination come real in this world.

Alone, surrounded by those he loved he was given the choice. Prompted by Little Greenie's bag, he was given that choice. For some there is no choice, there just is. But for him he had that choice. He chose to leave. To go away and leave only tears in his wake, only to return as thoughts and these words on a page.

You take those years and spill them before you. A stream where only the rocks show through flowing current. The water knows nothing and its course is undeterred by any thought you have. It keeps moving, it keeps moving. The banks seems quiet but as the river ebbs and flows it too changes. Mud turns to clay and then back again as the gravity pulls your feet down to it. The ages, the ages.

It Was A Blink Of The Eye Wasn't It

2008-10-29T21:58:00.000-07:00

The nurse poked and twisted and apologized the best she could. It had been twenty minutes and she had yet to find a vein sufficient to extract the amount of blood needed to run the perfunctory tests ordered by the resident doctor in charge. It wasn't often, she intimated, that she had this much trouble in drawing blood. In her years as a phlebotomist it was a rare day that she was so tested. She was alone on shift that night and there would be no counsel or second opinion on how to proceed. So in the needle went, over and over. She might find a small vein but as soon as a drop or two would enter the tap then just as soon its flow was suspended.

It was lonely in the ward so late at night. The patient knew to expect the nurse's travails and had warned her as such prior to her beginning her ministrations. He took each puncture in stride and a small part of him actually enjoyed it. It brought back memories of a day when it was he doing the hunting and pecking. Memories of a day long ago that when successful, when a healthy vein was readily available, a day when the blood flowed freely and then just as freely was returned back into the vein. He had become so attuned to the sensation that even though there were no drugs in the night nurse's needle he thought he could feel that metallic taste, the drug taste up high in his sinus'.

So the needle went in and out to no success. As the nurse's frustration grew his responsibility to calm her and alleviate her of any sense of failure gained in its calm intensity. He spoke in measured tones and never without a smile upon his lips.

"I am so sorry. I mean, I never have this much trouble finding a working vein. Am I hurting you?"

"Please, please, don't feel that this is in any way your fault, and no, there isn't any pain at all."

"Are you sure?"

"I am sure. Just take your time. I have complete confidence in you and your ability to perform your duties."

"I appreciate that. Thank you."

The nurse took his hand in hers and checked the back of it to see if there were a vein to be found but much to her chagrin she saw the telltale scars that made obvious the fact that he had been there well before her. She looked to his face and saw little concern on his part.

"Yeah, I know. Nothing there either."

"I suppose there is no need to look at your feet?"

"Correct. Nothing to be found there."

"There is a last chance place but I would like to use that as only a last resort."

"The neck right?"

"You ever use your neck?"

"No. I guess I had just the slightest hint of self-preservation."

In their time together they had forged a strange bond. She had never spent so much time with a patient and it being so late at night there was a strange intimacy.

"You know I never ask a patient why they have come to see the doctor."

"Really?"

"I guess I just figure it's just none of my business."

"Do you want to ask me why I am here?"

"I don't know, but I guess I do or else I probably wouldn't have mentioned it."

"Do you want to know?"

"Only if you feel like telling me. I don't want to pry but...somehow...I don't know...it's like I feel we are in this together now."

"I do too. You've really made me feel comfortable. I have often feared this scenario. I know what I've done to myself and thought I have no shame associated with my predicament, I... I don't know...I feel it is a very private matter but I don't feel at all as if sharing my story with you would compromise that privacy."

"Thank you for the kind words."

"So here goes and feel free to continue your quest as I try to explain why I am here."

There was a quiet in the clinic and no discernible activity anywhere near the small office.

"I came to the doctor because there is, I guess it goes without saying, but there is something wrong with me. You see I have been drained dry. I know I am being vague here but I have this sense that something akin to my essence has been removed from my being. I can't really say when I first noticed it but I came to understand that a part of me had been usurped and after much consternation and rumination I could find no reason other then it must be physiological. My, I guess you could call it, my soul seems to have disappeared and though I am not sure what, something untoward has been put inside me in its stead. Nothing comes out of me. I try and to the life of me I am empty and incapable of feeling or being. I have become a phantom, a ghost if you like. I know my physical presence belies this truth, but know that not everything seems as it is."

The nurse did her best to hide her shock, her worry and concern and continued her vain search for a vein.

"I hope this does not scare you."

The nurse had checked everywhere she knew to check for that elusive vein and so then moved her hand and gently felt the side of his neck.

"The neck huh? Go ahead if that is what you must do."

The nurse felt the bulge of a strong healthy vein running up the length of his neck just to side of his throat. She inserted the needle and...nothing.

"DOCTOR!!!!!!!!!"

I Am A Berd Girl

2008-09-05T17:01:00.000-07:00

A real fucking god's honest ladies man in the flesh. Walking side-step through every door, eyes on pivots, searching then honing in on the target. So that eye is lazy or the pants don't fit just right, no mind, objective in sight and all systems go. Don't mind if I get right to the crux do ya? . I need your phone number, got to have it. Look in these eyes, look deep into these eyes.

I have never told a lie. You can believe that can't you? Hard to believe I know because you have been told so many lies before, but I'm so different. You laugh? I beg to differ. I'm not just on the make here. You are so special and though I don't do this often all I can say is that when moved to do so I really mean it. I do really.

I'm sorry if I'm not so good looking. I'm sure someone as beautiful as you has guys pestering you, talking a line of shit, trying to get at you all the time. I don't mean to be a drag it is just that when I saw you I was compelled to come over and talk to you. My god you are amazing.

So tell me something about yourself. Really? That's incredible. And this makes you happy doesn't it? I knew it. I could tell just by looking at you. Those are such cool shoes where did you get them? Oh me. I don't know anything about clothes. I'm not a good shopper but I know what I like and I like what I see.

Of course I don't have a girl friend. What made you think I did? Oh, I have been single for a long time. I only want a long term thing, I don't go for one night stands. I agree commitment is essential. I've been holding out for that special someone too. You are so right.

Wow, we have a real connection. So what about that phone number? No, I'm not on Facebook, are you? Aren't those things just meat markets? Really? Maybe I should get on. Yeah, we could be Facebook friends. That would be incredible wouldn't it.

My last girlfriend didn't want to marry me. She said I wasn't in a position to support her. That was a while ago. She just didn't have faith in me. Her mistake. She just couldn't see the big picture, you know, the future. I have a great job now. Yeah, I make enough, well more then enough.

That sounds like a great thing. There is no shame working retail, you never know you could make into management and one day own your own Pinkberry. I think the outfits there are cute. I'm sure you look really good in yours. I wouldn't worry what anyone thinks. Really.

Tonight? Um...I have to go to a business thing tonight. I would love to go with you. I often thought of checking out Scientology. Really? That's amazing. So what about another night? Maybe a night when you don't have to go to one of those meetings? You could come check out my place, you know casual, no pressure.

I need your phone number right? Here let me put it in my phone. How about tomorrow night? You work? What time do you get off? That's pretty late but if you're okay with it then so am I. Amazing. I'll call you at eleven and then when you get off I'll pick you up from work. Don't take your car, I'll get you home.

Great. Then tomorrow night it is. Can't wait right? Me too. It was so great meeting you. Alright, I'll call you tomorrow night.

Outside the door he called that night's date. A real fucking god's honest ladies man in the flesh. Walking side-step through every door, eyes on pivots, searching then honing in on the target.