My Injured Prince

Through the screeching sound of judgement,
you talk as though we are prey
standing in performance theater,
raising my heartbeat you wish
to make it yield to your power

You must break something if your spell is not cast
If it’s my love than you will penalize me further
You are my accuser
My crimes of passion carry a heavy sentence

You spend your dreams weighing the cost of carrying
out longer sentencing
a vendetta against your love clings to more than your shadow,
but also your insides
you twist, turn, and contradict so much nonsense that
nobody knows if there are those who can construe your sense

The junkie in the midst of blackout calls me a sinner
how dare I paint in flaws?
I used to be the sinner and the saint
Now I’m assigned as the delinquent in your war- war is the only entertainment you can stand these days.

Heroes are dead and villains switch places, on constant reassignment
I loved a fallen angel
I focused on the angel part…
You cradled me like a broken bird, then we had to go back to a reality
where your credentials said you were in the peace core while
I was a hunted war criminal
Where did you manufacture those papers?
When you show them to inspectors, they don’t see what you see.
Instead drawings of comedians sober them up, make them want to die…
Oh the shame, I can feel it in the times you speak of me.
All the same, remorse’s glare is darker when you observe my life unannounced.

What was it that blackened the inside of your veins
so that minty chalk tobacco scent followed you like a lasso
tied to your tornadoes
Where was home when you called?

Your love (or is it only power) leaves me shivering, confused, desolate
but it’s simply your desperation that I find oppressive
You twisted against a purity, shaking me until my thoughts
bounced up and down, with your rage.
I was a horror movie being projected onto your screen
and then a romance, an adventure, and finally, a mystery…
Youdunit, youdunit, you dunit, you whispered.

You lived a hundred lives in the memories you carried of us
I hate you for imposing this new prison of trust! you thought.
“Not worthy of my respect-“you denounced in front of my friends.
They protested, and you grew spiteful
“They cannot see your sociopathic ways” you said,
and I think I felt your pain more clearly than my own.
Where did your need to hurt me come from?
Another question I couldn’t, shouldn’t pose.

To be the bloody dragon in a world where dragons are not alive is difficult, my friend.
I have an impossible time lying to those I love,
but your justifications slow me down.
My friends, they often say that I offer you
too much compassion.
No. No; and you would laugh, and mutter something indecent. that’s backwards, you’de cackle.
You gambled with your heart, and when the signs pointed to
a loss, the world was something to banish
Behave.

Trembling, I offered my vulnerability, but you were
in a haze of sorts. I don’t know, I couldn’t find a way into
words. You were certain in all the areas I wasn’t;
certain of failure,
certain of disappointment, certain of hate.
Still, you asked me if I still loved you. I did, oh, I did.

I could have told you I was both sinner and saint,
I don’t think you could choose between either one anyway…
I failed so many tests you posed, and the fact that you tested me at all, now that
was a promise that you broke to me so violently.

Begging you had its affect,
for some reason seeing you brought emotions into my self
that made me thrash. Overpowered by feeling. I was drowning in the fumes. I can’t be sure if
you knew where the surface was.

Before,
I didn’t know that it was you that made me feel so strongly.
While in your presence, doubt amplified- then pain,
then suffering, and longing, of course.

You formed knots out of my (and our?) innocence-
Innocence you denied knowing..
then wheedled your way into a horrible performance
one that had premiered in your minds eye,
as you envisioned different results.
Do you like your puppets to be made of clay or steel?

No longer your lost Lolita, I didn’t overreact.
This in itself seemed a horrible sign for you. Ominous territory.
I’m not a fan of seeking out mystical coincidences in the everyday.
Why wasn’t your poor Ophelia crying? Why did she put up walls?
How dare your investment come up short,
only to recover from your punishments?
Your torture must not be severe enough. In crutches, you decided.

You were always one for extremes,
but the time for daydreaming has come and gone
The black I see in your eyes does not surprise me anymore.
I am the one that wished you back, and I was not
careful enough with the doors I prayed would pry open.

My selfishness leaves a harsher glare on you than any act of redemption.
Yes, oh dark one, I am sorry my apologies mean so little. I would make it up to you, but you cut me off
at the knees, then tarnish my reputation- even though the Jews consider that murder- nonetheless,
it will not match what I’ve already encountered:
masks that were real faces, and faces that were masks,
Lives that were ruined by
beauty, your destruction remains a mystery to me

I don’t know if I will outrun the finger you point when we are not close
For it is our separation that infuriates you.
You made your bed, and it can’t be your fault, that is your rule,
but victimhood is not your story.
I ask you to tell me what is, but your sigh sounds as a hiss.

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Posted in abandonment, Blast from Past, conflict, contagious emptiness, criticism, desire, hurled, life, manic, relationships, unattended needs | Leave a comment

avoidance2, usually a place you go

2010 ReWrite Version 2

 Fear is what comes at us during the strangest times. u should know this, soulless coward. u sold your integrity & now, not even the dark wired fences outside, nor the threatening trespassing signs- which only further encourage curious intruders btw, nor the darkly colored walls in your mansion- will ward away the phone calls from people whose life insurance policy money u so eagerly drained. wife number 3 left so u sleep alone.

A buzzing sound jolts you awake to the sound of car alarms going off. The smell is vile. You’re lying in a pool of your own vomit, in a room you don’t recognize. how could you drink amaretto sours and curacao liquer when you had an admissions appointment at harvard the next morning?  You know the feral hyena coming to swallow you whole is justly deserved when you show up late to your new job for the second time. can’t u ever be on time, you overgrown bum? The force of that fear is what causes you to break the law because you are afraid you might lose the prosecution case you spent a year building. planting evidence, r u serious? what would ur father say? what’s next?

What halts your breath for a second or two is the way you try to overcome your fear, as you try to catch your breath before you speak up in front of an entire auditorium of people who despise you for your crestfallen appearance. u cant talk in front of people without sweating like a pig. u dont know what ur doing. ur not qualified. if u try to make a sound it will come out like a clucking noise.

 Being afraid is how you lose yourself in sleep for days at a time because the prospect of waking, then having so much to clean up, is shaking you down. She’s the friend you don’t want but can’t get rid of, or the enemy you never knew you had. ur not depressed, ur weak. u cant hold down a job. our father and i always supported u. 

 You try to avoid eye-contact when the trembling makes it impossible to stand up straight. You erase the evidence that, on the nights you couldn’t sleep, you still reach for your phone to text the guy with caramel-coated lies over backstabbing promises. the only way we can dispense these drugs is if u give me money here &now. um, cant i send someone with u? Why you needed to know you weren’t alone, you won’t say, but even the last on your list don’t text back today. You swat at the tears that emerge when the married man, a man who could be a plumber, a janitor, or a tree-cutter comes over to your house. It’s apparent he is and always will be a fixer, and only his hands can soothe you from falling into sharp, jagged pieces of blood stained glass. why? 2confusing!!   u heart him, but in the way a girl loves a boy, not the way a woman loves a man.

Smudge is what’s left behind from the night you tried to take apart your soul into a painting that’s always forgotten. Your fear is the only thing keeping you from jumping off the roof of a mall, and it is the only thing keeping you from not leaping right off of that roof of the Stateside Rovers mall. started as such a clear day. ur a liar and a thief. the pity card won’t work anymore. u will hav nothing left if she leaves. she’s wild and untamed beauty, but the other half of her is rabid & nonsensical, making stabbing motions with invisible knives. she wants to cauterize us, make everyone impotent. nobody brought presents to her b-day. hell, nobody even showed up. im going, and now she can get that divorce she couldnt admit to wanting, hell, ppl will even feel sorrow for her, the widow. cant let ppl feel sorry for my bitch. 

 Try to decipher how it could cause you to pee your pants in the first grade just because the teacher created a new policy, saying too many first graders use the bathroom pass. no breaking the rules! respect authority! Bicker over how sleeping becomes a mechanism that merely greases your nightmares into terrors you can’t name over and over again, trying to send you the same message and failing. why is he stalking thru ur dreams as if it’s his land he’s stomping on? Notice the way you keep nodding off as if you have been inhaling poisonous gas this entire time, for you remember somebody saying that medications mess with how much oxygen intake your brain gets, and how your body gets tired of the switch being fucked with all the time and your body not knowing how or when to intervene. u will never be able to do anything again, ur an old bag with no new tricks. ur used up. 

 Stay away from the fear that comes over you when you learn that you are losing your memory and that you will have to wear diapers as you grow older, using up the last of your pension fund. u will have to sleep on cold cement & ppl will only see a bag lady when u walk by. a cautionary tale. Ignore the surprise on your face when the only person you relied on laughs in your face and tells you they never wanted you around, they just liked your money or your body and they don’t care for it anymore. bitch, my iphone is 10x more valuable than u. at least i can put it on silent when im in public. Press past the neglect you see as you look into the mirror and realize you are getting old. mirror mirror, dont compare. Don’t look out windows anymore, for the blur you see might just be  your daughter running across the street, barely noticing when the car stops so she can keep running across. On  the days you can’t save yourself, much less your own offspring, stall. The month you realize you are about to lose your kids and there is nothing you can do to get them back, blame nobody. On the sunny Wednesday you pick up a gun to gain control of a situation and your hands begin to shake uncontrollably, don’t forget to aim before you shoot.

There’s fifteen irritating voice mail messages left on your machine that you don’t want to listen to. There is a flood on your hands that you can’t bail out of. Mortgage is pressing down on you and there is nobody to hold your hand. who would want to hold ur hand anywayz? Usually there’s a place you to go to when you are that afraid, but what happens when that place stops letting you in? Then you have another fear. The fear of the*86‘d-

Being kicked out of the last place of refuge you had makes you quiver in places you didn’t know were capable of that kind of movement. Having to actually use those two quarters to call out for help and hearing no answer, not because they didn’t hear you but because they don’t feel like answering.  please please pick up. it’s an emergency. for real. i mean it. i always mean it, but i really really mean it now. only u can cradle my pain with a well placed lie. You’re beyond the helplessness of having to leave a husband that makes demands you cannot meet anymore because they are beyond your scope of comprehension. i dont care if he doesnt love me back, or if the phone rings at night with the navy telling me he’s a bad man, or if he is suddenly forced to take a sexual harrassment course. if he got kicked outta the military for rape, she probably made it up. really, i can’t know what happened for sure. she’s surely lying. i’ll put my hands up to my ears and hear what i need. He promised he would never go to a strip club, and now he says that he needs a third girl living with you for him to have sex with, and you don’t say anything. i know im stuck, but i wont leave. i love him.You don’t leave him, and your son grows up afraid that nothing will ever change.  i wish my mother had just had the courage to leave him. i will rescue all damsels, even if they want their distress. 

 Take the hesitation in a policeman’s trigger before he gets himself shot by the criminal he didn’t want to have to take out. Find the primal cry of a baby that won’t stop crying in its teenage mothers arms. Follow the shivering of the hardest man in jail, trying to remember the sound of his mothers voice. Note the puff of a cigarette that helps keep denial at bay until one day the cigarette doesn’t work anymore.  Feel the lovely plush of a needle into a vein until the blood clots.

The only thing that circumvents fear is the absence of fear, but as long as you use drugs or sex or people not to  feel fear, the fear will come back to you as soon as you don’t have your blanket around you. Lie about the sensation that something went wrong and nothing will change it. The worst of all is being given a chance to fix it all, then fucking it back up for the ninth or tenth time.

Don’t admit that people like to harshly say the word “stupidity” with a certain reluctance and a roll of the eyes, as if by treating it with an iron fist, they can beat it out of their lives for good. Soften the lies you swiftly tell the welfare workers who come in asking you about the bruises all over your body and you tell them, no, of course you fell down the floors for the tenth time. he doesnt know how to show love without his fists. Forget the dreams you have afterwards of leaving home and never coming back again. Hoard those broken promises as you would ratty newspapers. When the ceiling comes falling down from the weight of everything you couldn’t throw away, don’t let the firefighters in. They won’t understand. They will bulldoze their way in, and instead of history they will see garbage piled over garbage. who would let themselves get that far gone, man? that stench. how could anyone live like that, what a disgusting ho. Forget what’s lost.

 Take the moment you turn from a victim into somebody that has to batter other people for making a mistake into an opportunity to smile crudely.

 

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Posted in avoidance, Blast from Past, experiment, fear, hurled, lies, rewrite, trying to combine the chatty with the poetic, unattended needs | Leave a comment

Trouble every day

I recreate what goes on so many times in my head; I step backwards, replaying what I did to see if it was right or not.

This is my surprise. a turnabout of events, a moment the scryers didn’t predict. Ultimatums don’t exist for me, except in split moments. Yet the moments cease to end, giving ultimatums clauses that loop around with all the grace of mice scrambling on high wires in a french circus. As the trained animals go to work, the audience eats funnel cake with strawberry sauce, or pączek-fried donuts, and the dignity in the situation is askew, even absurd.

I am my own best lawyer but the problem is that I am also my own best prosecutor.

“aw ga-hod, luk @ what she’s wearing!” “oh, pul-leez!” “you’re one 2 tok” “you & whose ARMY?!” “is that my daisy-chain Gucci purslette with a matching barf drawer? – you bitch!” “your slusband stole my girlfriend!” “oh_u_whore_u_whore!” (repeat if nec.,)

I take out my blue t-mobile phone and curse through the address book rapidly. It’s Parker. I need to contact him. He’s sort of my on and off boyfriend but not putting labels on things has put a strain over our connection. In over two years, we’ve gone from attempting a normal relationship to outright chaos. It probably didn’t help things that when I was in pain, he would bring me drugs. I was just as much to blame for taking them as he was for bringing them to me, but I was in a weak place, and I didn’t want to realize how unstable he was at the time.

His mom, who must be incredibly patient to put up with a son like Parker- is on the phone. He does not call me back. I’m not a patient person so I take the last bus out there. He is always asking me to go out there, after all. This puts things into a precarious situation as I will either be stuck after midnight on a bus stop all night or have to find a way to get to his place. I don’t drive, and the walk to his parents house is long and I don’t know it in the dark.

It turns out I have erased his cell from my phone so if his land-line is blocked, I will not get through. I figure that if he doesn’t want me to call, he would have turned the phone off the hook. I’m always calling at odd hours, waking his parents up, despite the fact that his mom has Lupus and gets up every morning at 6 am. But Parker and I, neither of us have a schedule, and we are both nocturnal people. When I am near the bus stop, his car drives up. Dark green. A lucky color.

I do not look at him or speak during the entire ride. All I know is that I had these sentences in me and now they will not come out. Words won’t make it to my mouth. In the end, all I can do is silently cry. I hide it but three hours later snot is dripping everywhere in my sleeves and when I am sitting next to him on a bed he can’t help but hear my breath constricting. It’s like I’m trying to kill myself by withholding my own breathing. When he touches me with his subdued calm, it feels like a cure but it makes more tears come out so I fight myself. I sound like some horse neighing as it drowns underwater. And then the lust is unquenchable and animalistic. After Parker and I finally make love, I’m frightened.

I curse at myself,

make me stop crying, make me stop being so unquenchable. I don’t necessarily want the wish answered, just heard.

I curse this world’s owner, who I imagine hears everything the way we hear it, sees everything the way we see it, but in a way where there are no limits. Time is frozen and sounds come all at once. Concepts we can’t imagine and have no place for in speech exist for this owner. What laws can this owner follow? 

Nobody helps me stop.

I try begging myself, but not even hitting, or thinking about random things help. I try counting numbers- but everything I do is to stop the onslaught of hungry, huge- and yet precise- tears. They are precise because the amount of tears coincides perfectly in accordance with the strife in the words Parker doles out. They echo relentlessly on playback and delay in my own inner chambers. Sadly, I cannot cheat the number. I’ve tried but I cannot escape what comes out. The irony is not lost on me that emotion itself is supposedly imprecise. This must be why language, with Parker and I, has become a festering wound, the grounds for horror in our relationship.

How he could have a photographic memory and be this closed a trap has always startled me.  Did the drugs he took for seven years before meeting me loosen the clasps on his tightly held  trap clap?

Maybe it’s because he remembers that he can’t handle life. So he became this way in a reaction against the stimuli. He had chess, but he didn’t have music like me, or an unflinching look at screaming fights and tragedy, the way I did early on. 

I’m gifted with an extreme sensitivity to loud noises, and to the “tone” in which something is said. The worst is when, in fighting an emptiness, somebody loses themselves to a tone which errs constantly on the side of sounding like deranged road rage multiplied by ugliness at its most pure. Alone, it remains unaware of just how ugly it is.

Here’s another thing: I have never learned restraint. No parent taught that course. Manipulation was something my sister did on occasion that confused me, and words in our house were like slaps leaving welts that I desperately sought to understand. Then I’d be kissed goodnight. After the kisses, my mother put a remove a mile deep between us, and then crossed it only on her terms alone, like when she wanted to read a passage from my diary. She justified it to me by saying I would have hidden it in a better spot if I didn’t want her to get to it.

 

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No Signs

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One Night Boy is a fun-loving guy who spends a great deal of his time helping people. Take James, one of the many ex-jocks to enter his doors. Got a full ride to college on a football scholarship but like many players trying to tough it out, he played when he had a bad right ankle, ending up with subsequent injuries to his groin, neck, shin, and right ankle. One Night Boy is the one who handed him his life back, even if it was all different. It’s only fair that James hand him the keys to his lucky white car. The engine takes a few minutes to start and the bumper is beaten up, but a car is a car. To One Night Boy it is a reminder of the life he restored. To remember the lives he helps better. For to think of all the people who give up is to feel defeat. What happens to them when they leave…Whether or not they end up lying in bed making surly remarks and addicted to morphine is  out of his purview and that makes him upset. But he’s good at blocking out negative thoughts. Restoring other people’s lost faith is the best way he knows to restore his faith in his abilities. He has an innate sense of how to treat those cornered and in pain. Rehabilitating those who have lost limbs, and with that lost their wife. Those are the extreme patients, but still, even a high school athlete with a small injury needs the right treatment. For example, One Night Boy needs to know when to look for steroid use. He also helps people get into shape. If he helped a woman lose 100 pounds and she didn’t feel grateful, would he still do it? He doesn’t ask questions like that, for they lead down dangerous paths.

His job requires a level of immense patience. He also has a high level of skill at chess, and is known for good sportsmanship. Chess Weekly described him as Panther Handsome. Chess tournaments come into his life from time to time, and he hangs out with grandmasters that analyze their games, drink beer, and kibitz about the wins they lost, mastering the technique of the endgame, as they laugh at the weird hangups of other chess players. For a long time he’s tangled with a passion for perfecting his body. He wants a girl to take his clothes off and feel like it’s Christmas. He’s their gift, and they can’t help but be thrilled.

Like most people in the business of body building, he struggles with a feeling of inadequacy that he can’t quite place into language. His sense of humor is spastic, with a helping of effeminate to the side. Girls regularly come to him to spill their problems. His main frustration in life: One Night Boy has no idea what his real flaws are, and therefore how can he attempt to battle them?

He tries to overcome what he thinks are his flaws with his toned muscles, and polite nature, using his long curly hair and crooked smile as a way to deflect pain. Twilight fans go crazy for him, screaming “JACOB,” thus mistaking him for the actor with the hot bod who played a werewolf. One Night Boy is great in theory: the ideal candidate for husband, boyfriend, best friend, brother…

But after telling a girl he can’t do one night stands for he just doesn’t have the stomach for it- which, he feels, is totally true, despite the fact that he hasn’t been in a committed relationship for years- he doesn’t know how to act. He feels he knows how she thinks, and (subconsciously) that paralyzes him. His mind has its own interpretation of his behavior. It tells him that he is a total gentlemen and that his desires and motivations are one and the same. He doesn’t probe farther than that. He’s too busy healing other people. So the day after sex with a girl he’s known for a long time he doesn’t do anything but ignore her. He doesn’t have a simple reason to reject her. She doesn’t exactly fit in the date category. But her behavior makes him feel edgy and he is not okay with feeling uncomfortable. She calls him after the sex and her words bombard him. They seem unjustified somehow. Why do they need to talk? What did he do? Why do they need to have a conversation? Aren’t they beyond this somehow?

So he panics,  deflects. “Did I offend you?” he responds when the girl, still reeling from the impressions of that night, wants to know how he feels. She says she won’t take it personally if he doesn’t want to see her again and she only requires one thing, honesty. Struggling with how to put what she wants to say into words, there’s a lot she doesn’t say.

She doesn’t want anything to do with her reactions a year ago. Got angry when they arranged date after date and he still didn’t show. Felt sad when he texted her after she gave him a little tease and chase, then claimed his phone was lost. Excuse on excuse piled leading to an array of arguments she should have lived without. She’s made it her practice never to defriend people, but she once defriended him. Her exception.

Giving him a second chance is the way she is, it’s just how she does things. Plus he agrees that she had good reason to be angry. She wants to expect nothing, and she tries. She tells herself that if he doesn’t call her or write her ever again, it would be okay, too. She just wanted to know if he wants to see her again. He writes back “what are you requiring of me? Did I upset you? :(” Not sure if he is playing a game or actually confused by her words, she tells him to call her.

But known for her impatience, she doubts he will call her. All of their communication thus far has consisted of a message left on his voice-mail and some fragmented texts through twitter. So minutes after she tells him that they should talk via phone or IM because now she is actually confused, she changes her mind. She doesn’t believe he will call, and she doesn’t want to be disappointed by him again. She decides to try her best to simplify things for him. Explain herself in a short and non-threatening way. He’ll probably feel anything is too long, but she wants to try. It’s how she would want to be treated- given options. Options in and options out.

Sex had been a really special thing for her, not something she handed out easily, as it had been so long since she had been with a man that every sensation became a signal that got lost a bit in translation but stayed in her blood. Nicked to the bone. She was the one who hadn’t wanted him to stop; she had desperately not wanted him to stop. She gets lost in moments the way some people lose track of time. He was extremely good at the foreplay. But unlike her other persona, the sex-familiar persona, she was hyper-aware of how good it could be, how it might be- not just how it felt right now. But maybe she was too sensitive. Because inside he hurt her but she didn’t want to say anything, She felt bad. She’d picked the wrong music. That’s why it hurt…the wrong sex music. It was some soundtrack with a violin that had some ridiculous passages in them. She’d had to make a choice in the moment when he was in the bathroom for a minute, and the previous mix tape was too depressing. She could trace a lot of the details back to it being her fault if she wanted. Also, she’s been having problems sleeping due to two meds she takes and doesn’t take. So she lies there for an hour, hearing his mild snore, her ears burning. She used to have earplugs on hand. She isn’t used to sleeping next to people, finds it difficult, even if his body is warm and soothing.

She wanted to tell him all the things she’s seen, all the things she’s lost, and usually she would have been able to say it with or without words, but some of her kisses are sensations instead of feelings. That’s a new one. She used to pour feelings into others. They were her instrument. Everything was an instrument…

And now the words are marbles in her throat  because the truth is a hammer to sophisticated senses. She tries to claw a dream from her sleep, but it turns on her. The memory is splashed into a thousand puddles that seep back into her subconscious. If only she could access that vault like she used to. Then she would be able to do back flips with her words and her kisses and her moans. But now she is silent. She can’t drink him up too greedily, for it would make her sick to ingest that much at once. Sips are needed after a prolonged period of no intake.

She’s learned how to keep secrets so she doesn’t have to see herself from other people’s prying eyes. All that wasted potential. She doesn’t want to know it, doesn’t want to meet it, greet it. But she’s willing to try anything to get out of the mess she’s in.

I need to be careful with my words, so careful, she thinks. Especially after it looks like he misunderstood her the first time around when she thought she was being so clear. Trying to dumb it all down, she tells him that doesn’t know if she can handle something serious because she puts her art first, but that she is looking for someone to have fun with and she’s open to possibilities. And oh yeah, he turns her on and she wants to try the sex again lolz.  But what she really wants to say is more like…Do you want to be friends with benefits or do you want to walk away. Do you want to be in a relationship with me or pretend it never happened. We both have certain complications in our lives and if it turns out I can rely on you and get close to you and you can deal with my complications then I’ll tell you about them… And anything could happen. But don’t feel obligated just because we had sex. Although I don’t understand how you could just have sex and not want anything to do with me…Because it honestly felt like you liked me, not like you wanted something.


I mean, I could understand you not wanting to get involved after all, but from the perspective I’m at now- and I’ve gone through more perspectives than most people have gone through toilet paper- it’s not something I would like. Since you say you aren’t a One Night sort of guy, I want to believe you but I fear you are exactly that kind of guy.  I believe I would have accepted that fact if you’d told me it was so. I might have asked you about why, but…

I wouldn’t have called you if I didn’t want you. I want you but I don’t know if you are the one. I have been hurt so badly I no longer believe in a one. Is it that desire divides us? A year ago I was passionate about our compatibility but now I will try really hard not to say anything if you hurt me. I won’t let it hurt. I won’t. I made a pact with pain. Also, I know you tend to lead an idiosyncratic lifestyle and I have no idea what you want. I just wish I knew what you wanted so I could form some kind of impetus or cocoon around it. It would be nice to know, you know? But you called me elusive- a puzzle piece, you said. Do you want to know the rest of the puzzle? I want to know. But you won’t tell me so I’ll try to be okay with that. Just don’t lie. Don’t make plans and cancel. Don’t say you want to see me again if you don’t.

I gave myself to you and maybe I shouldn’t have, is what she doesn’t want to tell him. Maybe I should have saved it for the one, the one I’m not sure I believe in.

One Night Boy will never tell anyone if he is a one night boy. He wouldn’t be able to come to terms with the idea that he was a player. Playas leave a trail of damaged hearts in their wake, and he is on this earth to help not hurt. If his life is a succession of dates that don’t work out, because he likes one night stands, he is not aware of that. A chase appeals to him but the sense of throwing away something of value is so out of synch with his line of work that the contrast appeals to his baser desires. The ones he thinks he can control, subvert, ignore, channel in the right direction with the “right” nice girl.  And this girl, is she really that nice?

All the while he thinks he is being a gentleman. And he’s not wrong. After all, society is very open about how sex is just something that releases chemicals. It’s exercise and women can be very aggressive.

Which is why the girl doesn’t want to make any assumptions. Any at all. She doesn’t want to assume sex meant anything to One Night Boy, but if it didn’t mean anything to him, what a pity. Why couldn’t things be black and white, or all grey, not the fucking rainbow all the damn time? Maybe One Night Boy would answer that question, if only she could ask. If only he would call. If only it didn’t look like he was lying to himself.  Maybe if she was a published author. A famous concert pianist with six albums out. A composer that has commissions and grants lined up out the door. If only she didn’t have a tendency to go in circles. If her life was more tangible to the eye, yes he’d want her. If her situation was more explainable he’d want her. He must not want her enough.  

Fuck it.

“This isn’t the you I know,” Taylor, her girlfriend, tells her. “He’s ignoring your calls and you slept with him? And you tell him you don’t expect to see him again? Give yourself more credit and do not allow yourself to be a doormat. Don’t let some stupid jock use you.” But the girl from his night doesn’t feel like fighting. Was there ever a point to any of her feelings? She lost the point along the way and she doesn’t want to cause any trouble. Is it really her territory to judge somebody just because they don’t want to clarify anything that occurred between them? They don’t want to give her hope, but they don’t want to take the hope away. It’s cruel, but nature is cruel. She likes being alone anyway. Wanting to share the aloneness with him was temporary and the desire will go away if she holds her breath and closes her eyes: one, two, three..But she breaks the deal and she unclasps the hands over her eyes. She peeks.

—————————————
Finally, she can see what he wants now. Wasn’t that all she wanted? To see what he wanted? And he doesn’t want to be One Night Boy. Does this mean they’ll hang out again, share stories, laugh over stupid misunderstandings, have sex again?

No no. He wants her to get angry at his blow-offs. Girls hate to be ignored; it’s been written about in magazines; it causes mass hysteria. When he is ambiguous for long enough… She’ll get frustrated. She won’t want to call or write if he doesn’t call or write. And then it’s no longer a one-night stand; it’s an anomaly. He never felt aware of what he was doing or what he wanted. In time she’ll understand that he meant to get in touch with her, no, he really really did… After all, nothing he did indicated otherwise.

Posted in abandonment, all that I can't tell them..., bashing, body issues, conflict, desire, Privacy, raw, relationships, sex | 3 Comments

The door to Caf…

***********WARNING*******ROUGH DRAFT– COMPLETELY UNFINISHED AND UNEDITED!

The door to Cafe Roma is open… People come in and out

and the vision surrounds me like a wishing fountain.

Fiona

The room was dusty and large, tactless paintings scattered unevenly on the walls. Smokers sat on the balcony with balcony for the smokers. I’d never played chess before. Seems like it’s for geeks. They are staring with such absorption at the pieces as if the knight and bishop were tarot cards with the persons fortune on there.
but it is a sign. People play this game in a coffeehouse? I had no idea. I did not know that people played with clocks out in the open like this.. I would have ignored them had I seen them a year ago, not noticed they were here. I could have done that, yes. For until now, I was as oblivious to the chess players as they were to the outside world… until Aidan the violinist offered me a chair.

The first thing I noticed was the way his eyes glowed with a strange electricity. He looked like he was lit from inside, for when he talked, it really was as though he had an electric wiring inside that nobody else had, and it was pouring out from his retinas in high voltages. He began talking me out of my mental reverie with a monologue that struck me hard. It didn’t happen right away- at first I had a crush on Jeremy, the mathematician with long blond hair and a face that was sculped like Kurt Cobains- (although Jeremy instantly winced at any mention of Cobain.)

With pangs of relief. His words abated contradictions I didn’t know I had… he found my trouble-spots and instantly formed bridges between the groves I had created.. suddenly I had an engineer working inside my mind, making connections and freeways in multiple places, so there would no longer be so many droughts going on inside me..

Dave cornered out chairs with his words; broke the legs and used them as fodder for a huge ladder he was using. I didn’t ask him what it was for back then. There was no need. Glenn Gould was standing in front of me; Glenn Gould, the answer to questions I was holding onto so tightly I still hadn’t let myself verbalize them. Or even turn them into thoughts for fear they might float away.. Dave the Violinist dug out pits for me to hide in, showed me trees for shade, created a mental basin for me to wash myself in.. he gave me many loopholes of thought for which I could escape or understand when he was talking, that I listened for eight hours at a time when we were together.

I should have seen through it right away, but all I wanted was to get away from home. In that sense, I thought maybe I needed a prison, to enforce discipline on me. I figured that I just needed to be locked up, and that as soon as that happened, I would stay in there working. Lawrence was supposed to be a “liberal arts college” for people who want to believe reading the conservatives and straights make them special. The people there pretend it’s the crazed rebellious college of their dreams, but in reality it’s a grey, stodgy, authoritative school, where you have to fill out five sheets of paper if you want to skip over a history course or take one elective that isn’t reprimanded as by the syllabus. The sheep-followers did the best in the class. This was truly the mark of a dangerous new era, where if you asked questions, you were seen as the bad kid in the classroom instead of the bright kid. Behaves Inappropriately, they’d write down on their comment sheets. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it either. If I ever come into power and money, I will tell everybody how enslaving this was, I promised myself.. and tell them to send their kids to Cornish, instead.

I was wandering around in the students lounge when I ran into a piano student I knew back in high school. I did a lot of wandering in Appleton; I would wander the ghostly streets for hours, noticing the factories, broken down empty restaurants, and drunken crystal meth addicts, walking forty five minutes and walking over a freeway just to get to an Applebees restaurant. I knew this guy from high school! He was immediately an undercover at this place! I mean that he wasn’t a complete sheep in wolf’s clothing.. he might pretend to get good grades here, but I knew that while he was probably somebody I wouldn’t talk to outside of this place, I was working on truly seeing, and there wasn’t anyone around that was much better. There were my friends.. Cut-right and Mike, who I would stay in touch with for seven years after leaving the place.. but they both occupied strange social niches. I mean, they had friends.. Cut-right was famous on campus, and always getting into weird situations where girls would stalk him and he’d lay low. But he was my best friend, and we sat together at every meal. There was always some life-or-death tale about him and grades, him and some teacher.. I was responsible for creating the Mike/Cut-right friendship. At the time, Mike looked down on Cut-right. Had I known that three years later Mike would follow around Cut-right in a trance, calling Cut-right his guru, I probably would have walked away right then.

I talked to the black haired, cynical boy in the lounge- who later always reminded me of the cryptic, visual artist that Irwin hired to be his Dominatrix and weight-loss instructor, Jeff Birtirt. Birgirt would take Irwin’s credit cards and spend thousands of dollars buying cocaine on them.. at the time he loved alcohol and coke. Not a good mix if you want to keep a lid on your problems from getting the best of themselves.. If you keep feeding that stuff into your soul there will be danger.. It attracts the stuff like a lightning rod. Birgirt was the actor on the stage directing the show. and he was paid to abuse the right man..

Not that I’ve ever seen any of his paintings, but Birgirt probably always favors drawing handcuffs to drawing faces. He wears a lot of black and a residue from AA meetings hang off of him. If you know what to look for, you’ll see it.

The guy at Lawrence, a much more academic version of Birgirt, I guess, started getting all on me and in my business after he saw me playing Bach on the piano, and after he started telling me there was something so strange and familiar about my conversational style, about my arguments, about my memory, about… the way I played Bach. As if there was something I wasn’t aware I had. As always, somebody claimed to see what was in me before I could. He made me feel like a mind, or a puzzle, but no, not a girl. Up to this point, I was just a teenage girl…seen by my friends as the wild girl, somebody who reminded them Drew Barrymore in Mad Love

, somebody they wanted to live through vicariously, but couldn’t actually love.

During the conversation in the lounge with the piano player that seemed a bit devious, and liked a dirty kind of analysis that doesn’t go anywhere, he told me that I had the mind of this radical chess player, somebody I had never heard of, somebody everybody else had heard of. I’d never heard of any chess player before, so the name was news to me. I carried the name close afterwards like it was a map outside of the small town I’d kept my heart locked in. This blacked haired guy was a supreme manipulator extraordinaire. But I knew a life-changing talk when it came my way. I didn’t need God to send me two. And I knew that this guy and I would probably never cross paths again. I didn’t have much interest in seeing his face again… I just had to prove what he said to me. I had to prove if it was right or wrong or warped or true. But I didn’t know much besides music. Like, I didn’t know the rules of chess.. I hadn’t really given it two pennies thought before. All I knew is that I was playing eight hours of piano a day.

But once I got back into Seattle… my hands wiped clean of that awful school.. I couldn’t play at all because I had carpal tunnel. I didn’t think it was from my technique, so much as the misery of living in Wisconsin. My final term there was a haze of obstacles… I always had worn contacts, but that year I needed to start wearing glasses because my eyes started reacting.. my hands stopped being able to play.. my heart stopped seeking adventure and began peering at itself nervously, looking for flaws.. I couldn’t really write or type, but I forced myself to.

Dave the Violinist met me when I was 19.. I had just written this half a hour piece called “Who Kidnapped Bobby Fischer?” with the idea in mind that if Bobby hadn’t had chess, Bobby wouldn’t ha been able to escape any of his demons at all. With the idea that if Bobby hadn’t had something to concentrate his mind on, it would have gone in a million directions, until the exponential process began to turn his razor mind into ten different personalities, and then a hundred, and so on.. until he was a mad man roaming around in a maze, trying to understand the book, the Osbourne Identity by Robert Ludlum, trying to figure out if Cain is evil or good, killing people along the way but tries to not do it without reason.. he tries not to leave innocent bystanders.

The song I wrote is one thread of a melody that splinters.

And my life had one of those picture-changing moments the day I walked into a café on the ave and met Dave. I already had too many Dave’s in my life… my best friend at school’s first name was Dave, and now.. I stood in the café stunned, like an arrow had just fallen at my feet. Ruby was in the café too, but he was hunched over, playing a speed-thin pale blond mathematician that had been told he looked like Kurt Cobain so many times he hated Cobain. His name was Jeremy, or Ghost. I’d become as close as friends as people get with all three of these guys. But as Dave the Violinist said himself, chess players sometimes think that “hanging out” and “seeing time get wasted” means being closer than real loyalty, than real substance. I knew from Lola that friendship meant work and depth. But I was about to learn about a whole new sort of friendship…

I hadn’t been able to play piano in months, and I laid around home moping, reading everything Dostoevsky wrote, everything Solzhenitsyn, and some of Leo Tolstoy… (I did not read “War and Peace.”) then I hit my Ellie Wiesel phase, and read everything he wrote. Then there was an American stage, and I hit the old American authors, like Somerset Maugham, who wrote “Of Human Bondage”. After meeting Ruby that night too, Philip in “Of Human Bondage” reminded me just a bit of him, because he was so interested in that girl, Ana. He probably liked that it was such a simple and strong first name, the beginning of the alphabet placed twice next to only one other letter..Ruby didn’t remind me of the character inside.. it just reminded me of the way he was acting for a little while.

The story is about a man with a clubfoot who, after getting a scholarship education and growing up in a difficult family where he is not the real son, is obsessed with a waitress named Mildred, a taunting woman who refuses to lie about her own emotions… Philip falls in love with her but also misunderstands her by over-complicating her.. His own eternal optimism is probably the worst part. She is not at all educated. She has a primitive simplicity about her passions that Philip doesn’t understand. It’s funny, because usually there is an exotic girl in the story that the guy falls for.. and in this case Mildred is exotic because Philip has never really encountered this kind of working class girl before..Younger readers may misinterpret Mildred as the villain, or as being heartless because she stays with Philip as long as she does for material reasons. There is a lot going on there between those two characters that deserves further analysis, and has been made into analysis during English classes, I’m sure..

In real life, everybody is so scornful of Ruby.. and it is what makes him lash out. See, I know I’ve had some great times with Ruby… I know I have. So why did it have to be this way? I’m sure that when we started being friends again a month ago, he was disappointed when we didn’t kiss the way we used to. I’m sure he didn’t understand why I didn’t want it as urgently as he did anymore. So he decided I was sick when he knew I wasn’t. Somebody showed him some of my feelings, and he took off in the wrong direction. That’s the part I don’t get.. I always felt worse for him because I know he didn’t have an easy start. And on his birthday, I wanted to go hiking with him.. but I didn’t have the patience to make that day a great day, which is my own fault, because I let some complications get the worst of me. But he spent most of it at work. And I know that somebody else wanted to use them for their own evil bidding, and he denies that anybody else would know how to use him that way. That’s the part that gets me. It’s like Ruby was most vulnerable when he thought one person was controlling him.. most vulnerable to a person other than the one he thought was really controlling him. So he let the really bad person control him. Somebody really, really bad. I know that if I asked Ruby about it that he would make sure he didn’t look me in the eyes. He used to try so hard to understand… But in the end he didn’t understand me at all.. and he saw everything but me and his understanding. That he probably wanted to turn it all around and yell at somebody else, “Stop calling me dumb and stop telling me to raise your rating” but instead he tried to destroy what he loved because it was closer. I know I’m supposed to hold a grudge the way Oshiro says to- Oshiro will tell me one phrase that I should write down, or some pretty words to use to teach somebody a lesson- but it’s not easy to hold onto the sentence at all. I just hope that Ruby will realize that lashing out is the easy way.. and so he will lose interest.

Ruby does not blink very often. His eyes are an open range light-blue force field that he uses to stave off other people’s intruding opinions. People think that he is simple and don’t press. Maybe Ruby has learned how to be the quiet person in the room, only saying one thing that might impress somebody, and then going away into his own thoughts, retreating far away.

He struts ahead confidently, but when he opens his mouth, he is so bashful, you want to

After the chess games stopped, Dave the Violinist led me, Ruby, and the pale mathematician followed. Both he and Ruby stopped to smoke their cigarettes. Ruby sucked on the filter with such concentration that it looked like he wouldn’t have noticed a building burning even if it had been burning down next to him. Jeremy seemed to defer to Ruby, or maybe it was the other way around? At any rate. they were all listening to Dave the Violinist, who was still talking. Dave the Violinist was the only one who really blew me away, but the others seemed interesting in a way an observer couldn’t cheat their way out of seeing. Dave the Violinist ordered a small little bowl of lentil soup while Jeremy and Ruby ordered huge platters of fries and falafels and side orders on them.

In the middle of their conversation, my boyfriend jon from high school in Michigan strode by the restaurant. I screamed out his name and ran out. When we came back in together five minutes later, Ruby said it was like we were both on ecstasy somehow. I think that Jon just has that affect on me, always. Jon and I were always like two tornadoes imploding in one another. Maybe we still would be if we talked now.

Jeremy struck up my interest.. he was so magnetic and yet so different from me. That night, Dave and I went over to Jeremy’s.. and I ended up staying the night at Jeremys. Once the dawn came I bolted. It was the only time Jeremy and I hooked up. He already knew himself while I didn’t; he was reacting to a sickness that had been sprung on by love gone bad while I was feverish… I didn’t know anything, and that ignorance can hold a tremendous power in and of itself that the person herself or himself does not know about.. Maybe it’s even self-protecting,, like some of those weird plants that you eat early enough in life and gain immunity to… Something with both toxic and safe properties depending on different variables. But I was such a self-reflective person; I didn’t care about trying to ditch this power as soon as possible. It didn’t work for me.. How had it ever worked?

At any rate, I ended up trying to learn chess, but not until almost four months later, when Dave the Violinist left the city. While Dave the Violinist was there, he was the only thing in my life. We spent eight hours together every single day. I listened for hours, awe struck up in every part of my being. I had to return to my parents house every night.. but when I got home I’d often end up talking on the phone to him for nine hours. Finally, he decided to leave because he didn’t like the practice spaces there… and there was too much diesel fumes from the buses.. and cities were too close together. He’d spent so much time living in New York City.. some in Canada.. but I guess he wanted to go live in the Countryside. When he left, he didn’t know where he would end up. He hitch-hiked away. The thing is, he thought he was leaving for eight days straight.. so I lived feeling like every day was the end. Until it was, and I rolled over and tried to make the best of it. I didn’t think too much about it. I hadn’t yet realized that some part of me felt like there wasn’t anything as important as having Dave the Violinist near me in the way he’d been. But when I’d come to that realization, I’d no longer be the same person. I’d suddenly be somebody who the old me would have misunderstood yet maybe looked up to in spite of herself. Who am I fucking kidding? How do any of us know this stuff?Four years later, the prodigal man returns from his hitch-hiking. He wants me to stalk this nineteen year old girl named Kate. The whole thing hurts my feelings. I have an electronic piece that I wrote with B that uses two voice mail blips from Dave the Violinist. The piece was called Monstrous Untruths. I have no idea how I picked such an apt name. It was like I could see the future… when I wrote that piece. All my pieces are about somebody. Monstrous Untruths is all about Dave the Violinist. Unwashed is about Ignaccio. Quantum Dilationis about Ruby. Tranquilize Me and Suicidal Elephants On a Chandelier are about Oshiro. A Dream Gone Cold is about Jeremy. Dead End, the saddest thing ever, is about my heavily idealized memories of B, or the recklessness in my life that was governed by that idealism and the shattered pieces I refused to leave behind me when things got lost. Ironically, it’s probably the only piece he has never heard. It doesnt have any of the compositional weaknesses that he saw before in some of my other work. It’s really hard for me to think about my music these days. I don’t know why. Oshiro thinks that I need time to build my confidence back.

The first time Dave the Violinist comes back after his abandonment, the whole thing goes awry. He doesn’t recognize me underneath the black eye make up. He sees a whole different person. And he is so much crazier and dogmatic then I know him to be. The episode ends with me not letting him back inside the apartment at three in the morning in cold rain. He hustles a ride with Irwin, who returns his stuff to him and drives him to Portland. Dave pretends to like Irwin.. but he doesn’t think the guy has ever really read a book. “The guy has never read!” Dave claims later. As usual, he is using the provocative phrase to get me thinking.. because we all know that Irwin owns a lot of books.

After Dave leaves and things went back, I assume I will never see him again. I feel badly for how things ended up- even rotten. I don’t understand how to compile the memories of him that I had with the new person that showed up on my doorstep, obsessed with some girl Kate. I get the impression that she was a simple girl. Later, when he starts trusting me with more personal admissions, he tells me that he “wouldn’t give me the spit from her lips.”

All that information.. and we are back at a week ago. When I received a call that Dave was in town. And I ran down to his motel… and he kicked me out at three in the morning. And I walked home alone without complaining walking by some of the worst streets of the city during nightime. I invited him to come give me another chance. I promise that it won’t happen again.

And Oshiro says that I put up with more than anybody else would have put up with.

But when I think back on all the good things that Dave did. Every breakfast was already laid out for me. He organized entire rooms for me so the spacing of it made more geometric sense; he spent three hours cleaning the kitchen one random day; and for a week, I only ate his food. I could have done those things for a long, long time. It was the gaps in communication that hurt me. It was Dave always using excuses so he wouldn’t have to explain something to me. Simple things, like “why are you in Seattle” would enrage him… because the answers was too laborious and I should have known that. He didn’t know if I was listening.. but he didn’t explain why. He would scream at me..something unheard of. The Dave I knew didn’t have a temper. Then he would apologize… as long as I apologized first.

But Dave wouldn’t tell me when he was leaving. Was it never, or in a week? I couldn’t live not knowing. But he wouldn’t tell me. He wouldn’t give me a date. And one day I got down and said he could stay.. maybe be roommates with me if his credit checked out. “And I won’t make you pay half of the rent..You dont even have to pay very much at all. you just have to make sure the landlord think you can pay that much and more every month.”

The whiny Dave was in such opposition to the Dave that I knew got in fights all over town. The Dave which had enraged speed-feaks and gotten into a fist fight in the bookstore. The Dave who got in fights all the time with people because of the ferocity of his beliefs. I believed in all of what Dave said. But he wasn’t explaining all the tiny little things to me anymore, and it was breaking us apart.

We got in a small fight, when I wasn’t talking much and he claimed “i was angry at him” and wouldn’t drop it. I was so upset I left him alone in the apartment, and when I got back he was gone, the door had been left unlocked. This was unheard of. It’s just we were communicating so badly with one another. I was impatient with him asking “Do these two bus numbers go on the same road” when he meant to ask “does this bus go back and forth the same way” about both routes; and if he’d only phrased the question in a different way, I wouldn’t have sat there making him angry, making him yell “I wasn’t trying to confuse you! Stop purposefully mistaking what I said!”

When he returned home from practicing that night, it was very late. Instead of trying to make up with him, I was on the bed, talking to Oshiro. Oshiro had taken three hours to calm me down from an upset mood to a calm one. But Dave managed to get my adrenaline back up in just a few seconds…

I hadn’t been sleeping so well. I was going cold turkey from a downer that my body was realizing wasn’t coming back into my system. So I needed total calm. I turned away from Dave, my phone curled around me, Oshiro and us talking in sweet, quiet voices to one another, the separation making us closer. Finally, I lovingly cradled the phone into the receiver. I turned out the lights. But Dave was in the kitchen making clinking noises; and my double bed has no door… it is open against the kitchen. One enters the door and sees a huge room with a double bed in it, and a kitchen. He was taking his long time cleaning spoons and making clinking noises. I tried to block it all out.. the whole world out. Dave came over and asked me what I was doing and I said, peacefully, that I was trying to sleep.

Finally, I took my covers and moved to the other room. The door covered the noises.I told myself this was a sleepover, I was falling asleep now. Then Dave crept towards the door. I could hear his voice… and I didn’t want a noise complaint. But I was trying to sleep..and if I listened to Dave, I’d lose the calm that the last three horus had given me. I know that my adrenaline works on a trigger-hair; I have always known that; and I didn’t want to try to sleep if he jacked it up. But Dave took three minutes to modulate his voice into a yell until he was yelling at me. I squirmed.. and squirmed. Not hearing what he was saying for the first time all week. Finally I tried to close the door. Later he would claim, as was always his pejorative claim, that I provoked him. Dave always underestimated his affect on other people. He felt so helpless, he assumed that his screaming was like somebody else talking. This contributed to some of our problems that week.

I stood up, and my adrenaline was hijacked. My heart, which the doctor already says is crazy fast, even on downers, was double its normal too-fast speed. I yelled back something that didn’t make sense.. and finally Dave went away. I told him to leave me alone or leave. but he wouldn’t leave me alone, he had to talk this out. Instead he just got me upset. I wanted him out, now. And I had gone back on my promise, and I was upset that he had forced me into wanting to use force, my last and only recourse of action. I had wanted to do anything but this.

He went to go to sleep as soon as he had awakened me. But I was so upset. I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. I talked to Oshiro for four more hours. Finally Oshiro told me to set the phone down. We stayed like that, so if I wanted to I could start talking and he’d wake up.

I walked into the other room and sat down to write Dave a letter. The letter was spit. It was fire and spit and criticism. I was so very torn up, but knew he was unreachable. I could hardly go in there and just have him hold me, but that seemed to be the only way Dave and I communicated anymore. Except at night, when he’d go back to the other room and onto the floor. Dave was so strange about what he would and wouldn’t do. I accused him of trying to take other people’s spiritual tranquility because he had none of his own. I said that I could be tranquil in a war.. but that he needed somebody to obey. I said nothing but servitile, dusting his feet and lying on the ground, made him feel better. I told him to find an oxygen flotation device for me so my smile could be taped on and my eyes inserted with chemicals which would make them stay open in rapt attention the whole time.. so he could finally think he had the attention he wanted. I told him he was more rigid than any rabbi or priest I had known, and that his ideas were verging on fascism since no other ideas could be right and everybody was supposed to live by his ideas. I explained that to love him meant to love death and pain equally and then I said it was the sort of sentence I would make fun of if he showed me the letter but where would he find another young girl to make fun of? I explained that I knew I was really good at doing what people wanted, as I had discovered this to be very true recently, as I had been able to get quite far that way..but that he couldn’t experience joy or pleasure anymore. I told him he should use some toxic ink to write his ideas down, knowing it was toxic but doing it anyway.

In the morning, I had two people come over, a husband and wife. The husband had spent ten years in a jail and could use violence if necessary. Dave started yelling at the girl with me and saying it was all her fault, that she was making me say words I wouldn’t say, that it was all their fault, and me and Dave were fine.. and he refused to leave. Finally, he began to leave. He called his sister shaking and asked her to pick him up. He leaves. I have been up all night unable to think of solutions to compromise.. and before he had gone in the room to wake me up, I assumed we would verbally wake it up in the morning, but when he crossed the door barrier, I didn’t think we could work it out anymore unless he left. I was very upset that I had to use force. I felt terrible.

Dave tries to hold onto me before he gets in the car, but it is too late. For some reason, he wanted to know what it was like to lose me before he could get me. Nobody can get to know that with me without actually losing me in the process… When he touches me I no longer melt. I turn away in the middle of his words, in the middle of his blasphemic description of what happened.

He calls me and leaves a message two hours later.

Then… the next day. The next night. We talk. For nine hours. It is like the old days. For Dave, when he sees the answers, sees all of the answers lined up. I see it in a picture instantaneously which I cannot explain. But Dave sees logical trajectories and has to follow each one wherever it goes. Dave has read my letter. The criticism has helped him. I have won points with him. He is surprised at how accurate it is, but he says he will not tell which parts were the most accurate. He begins to tie things together. He does what he would not do all week; he trusts me with personal stuff. I begin to giggle and I begin to relax. I am glued to his words; I would find it impossible not to listen. He explains about Lyme disease again, and how he lost his eyesight.. and how he had it undiagnosed for twenty years. He answers any and all questions I have about his theories. We talk about art, culture, the future, government, truth, 500 years ago, now, media, mass technology, history, Bob Dylan quotes… everthing is open. I talk about Victor, the french wild child. And he offers me analogies to people in my life. He does not give advice in this conversation. It is beautiful.. and it is not fair. He explains why he is not as inclined to holding onto new friends, explains about what brought him to this point. But he is not staying in Seattle. Mostly, I understand he taught me something more important than anybody.. maybe even the boy from Lawrence. But he couldn’t have taught it to me without all this space or without all these kathartic moments or without all these semi-abandonments within one huge abandonment.

“You dont want friends!” he’d screamed out when he was angry, two nights before. The irony is that he is the one who is always focused on concepts.. while he says i perform too many sociological experiments. Even though he is the one who refers to his own friends as experiements.. the ironies circle around endlessly like shark. In the end I know it’s only because I want friends so badly that I put up with people who yell this shit.

A day later he is leaving. He acts as if he had this date in mind the whole time he was here, and I know he didn’t. He recreated bits of the past to fit in with logical trajectories.. like me, he needs a truthful witness by his side. When he sees me, he kisses me, he holds me, he whispers “goodbye kitty” to my cheek. I stare up at him for the first time… and he tries to tell me to be responsible to myself, not other people. He goes on some rant about me taking care of myself physiologically and I giggle at him and call him funny. My eyes pierce him and take everything in times five what I see. Now he knows why I didn’t encourage eye contact earlier on. I couldn’t do it unless it actually fit our connection. Unless he was actually reciprocating. No matter that his blindness denied him eye contact and that for years his fantasy was just to see a girl make eye contact with him. My gaze is too fierce for many.. and he makes me soften and squirm and fight against what he says. When he says goodbye for real.. it is the first time I have ever seen him be efficient and not try to prolong things. Unfortunately, it’s also probably the only time i really want him to prolong something. He says he sees hope and optimism in me. It’s probably the first time he has seen it in me since the night at the motel. He promises to keep in touch and give me an address. I don’t understand why he can’t stay here.. since, after all, he wants to try and keep friends, not just make friends, yet there is no family despite the seven brothers and sisters and living mother and father who he keeps in touch with. We talk about translation in Milton Babbit’s music versus the meaning of transformation.. Dave provides the trajectories, and I shoot off into the sky with them.

He must want to be like me in some ways.. he says I am inpenetratable or unmovable or unreachable where he is reachable, and vice versa. I want to be like him in some ways.. I wish to disappear from my friends life in a way that they cannot track.. even with the best detective!! Dave hides himself so well. He is impossible to trace unless he allows himself to be traced. For he is not like any modern city person. He only calls you when he is in your city, and even then it is from a pay phone, and he will hardly ever tell you the return number to his motel. He is persistent when most people would give up, and he disappears when most people would appear.

I do not like that he always gets to choose when he leaves me. That even when I wanted to run away from him, I could not, because he was now living in my own home. While I thought about abandoning my own home, I could not do that, even when I am a runaway at heart.

I believe that we are much closer.. and I am shocked that my fireball brought us closer. I am shocked that we could fight like we did and still have so much to teach one another. Most of all, I just wish that he could still be the person he is.. but without the pain of four years separation., without the pain of his yelling. and without the pain of his not listening and my over-extending to listen, and his manipulation of my over-flexibility; the way I will start bending and shifting ten different ways if somebody around me is rigid. I worked around Dave’s practice room needs.. and so much more. The way I began living my entire life around his schedules and rituals… because they would not change for anything or anyone. I wish there could have been a compromise. But I sense that for us.. this is a compromise. And a part of me feels like mourning, and I’m not sure what I should feel. As I always say, I don’t feel my feelings, I think them. When Dave came back into my life the time before this, I had begun asking to see him in my thoughts.. and I hadn’t been thinking about him for years. I think that he finally heard me that time, but that he wasn’t in the right state. In my heart is the truth that has come with brash loss..and the mysteries that have been solved are now locked forever in my brain as patterns to recognize later.

Aside | Posted on by | 2 Comments

Schoolgirl Dreams

Rule number one: You need a few good personas up your sleeve. And.. that’s really it.

Take that girl strutting down the hallway. I Act Hypersexual and Slutty When I’m Practically a Celibate Girl. Dresses provocatively, full of coy glances, she’s banned shyness from her vocabulary! So hyper. So unladylike! Finds your ignorance on matters of the female anatomy hysterically funny! Do you want to talk to her? Do you really? She’s an interesting choice, as most people in the hallway take one look. They don’t want to see beyond a projected persona…takes too much effort. But this one is so shiny and pretty! A lot of people will do anything she wants to get behind the projected persona. (When projection is done well, people get curious about how the process behind the mystery works.)

Lesson two.. People are comfortable with personas. Personas are predictable, people are not. Decide now which persona you want to commit to. They all have their ups and downs. If you want to be the shy prissy girl? Well, right there- the hypersexual we were just pointing at- that is your new best friend. Cuddle up to her. Because. If you want to be shy and prissy without having freshman year be a plague of innuendos and insults going the wrong way than you really mustacquire her as your new BFF to make you look good.

Otherwise.. you’ll be a loser with a capital V on your forehead. Forever! Didn’t anybody tell you that how you do in high school determines the rest of your life?

Now that you’ve made your choice.. Let me hook you in for the trade secrets…

Pretend to be all hypersexual and blatant about sex because it makes guys think you’re slutty. When they think you’re slutty, they are much less likely to think of you as girlfriend material. Now that you have them at arm’s length, the only place you can  get comfortable, you may act all platonic. Do wild things without having “them” get all sentimental (boo hoo). The few guys that have crushes on you despite your completely one hundred percent made up “I’m a player persona…”  Stay the hell away from them! They should make you incredibly uncomfortable.

(Why do they like you? Why?!) To cause you discomfort. To make you feel self-conscious. To make you feel good? Don’t ever buy into your own persona, that will create a real need for therapy later on..

Guess they’re just desperate! Remember, to them you are one of the loneliest people out there. And you will call up “one of the guys” just to hang out for a few hours, and they will walk away with a blush on their face, embarrassed that they came out to your place and nothing happened. That’s right! No kiss, no cuddle, no fuck, nada. Because when you are feeling out of your skin, there are very few people who will make you want to cross that barrier over to feeling instead of guarding. Don’t let it happen!

(The few times when you become interested in the technical facets of sex, you’ll just feel incredibly inadequate. Do you like kink? No. Want it in the ass? No. Want to put a webcam on and…? Not now. Want to talk dirty? Well, um, you don’t know? Want to be tied up and saturated in cum? NOOOOOO? Well what’s wrong with you! You’re so crazy for not wanting to do all that fun stuff!)

Be interested in private. When the pervy but popular guy sees interest he will use it to explore every fantasy he’s been having since he first started shaving.

So how do you maintain the façade? Well, guys need somebody to say they’ve gone all the way with. It gives them status. High fives in the locker room. Which is important if they want to belong to a fraternity, then end up joining wall street and getting a key to the rich and powerful club.. and so on.

Does that mean you are one of those vanilla people who enjoy cuddling? Well, that’s where it gets tricky too. I mean, if you’re obliterated enough, I’m sure even you can act totally normal.

Booze! Yay for booze! Another status increase! (And don’t mention anything else, the other drugs are delicate terrain to navigate unless you’re hanging out with 8th graders.. And why would you?)

Nowadays you have to be more careful- back in the nineties it may have looked cool to be ahead of the curve, acting out- putting your self-destructiveness into excessive drug-use made you seem “deep-” but we’ve passed that whole era. We are all too aware of the parents that embarrass us with they’re “I need these pills or these drugs or I’ll wake up vomiting and honey, hand me my crack pipe” moments. We don’t want to be them. We don’t want to know them! So it’s reallynot cool to be a stoner with “potential.” They might be occasionally fun to date because their inhibitions are lowered, but as a generalization, they’re staggeringly oblivious to consequences.

You like making out in crazy places, closets and banisters and the nurses station when nobody is around.

That is where it starts and ends.

Jessica, a striking brunette with a lithe body and a penchant for guys that challenged her, made a huge mistake: she let a guy know she didn’t care one way or the other! Well, except for them getting off, she did care about that a little bit, at least. And If she got off, she had begun to feel kind of shy about the whole matter, prefered they not get too involved in it. Only guys really do have a huge ego thing, they are really into pussy, what it looks like, how pretty yours is, and they’ll be irritated if you aren’t as insanely curious about it as they are. And they are so obsessed with noting what you look like during that one moment of.. Whatever. You risk putting a lot of people off by not faking or caring about that part but don’t worry; those guys are too goal oriented anyway. And they need you to tell them just how altruistic they are, when really they have super low self-esteem, a few extra pounds or shaggy hair, and a constant need to know how good they are. They want somebody who is all taste and no flavor, hook and no bait. It’s a trend. They come, they go. Mostly they annoy.

Matt, the bulky red haired anti-hipster with an ambling walk, a fierce left hook, and penetrating blue eyes met Jess on the debate team. They’d make out for three hours straight, and it would go other places, but the fact that they could stay interested for that long doing the same passionate yet monotonous thing was interesting to her.. Until it wasn’t. For soon Jess wanted that guy at arm’s length, too. He kept saying “are we in a relationship or not?”

If a guy ever says that, be freaked. It’s consistent with the persona, anyway.

She told him they couldn’t fool around anymore, ever. He thought she was a tease. He kept trying when they were alone to make things difficult for her.

(You see, the physical barrier wasnt there for Matt anymore; he thought he could just reach out and touch her as if there weren’t any barriers there at all, as if he’d gone through all the hardship, resented her for even putting him through it at all, and he didn’t need to use words to explain he was done with THAT!) Now it was just straight-up ownership. Sort of like somebody who.. How do I put this? Somebody who thinks getting their first apartment and living away from mom and dad means they never have to vacuum the carpet. Somebody who thinks getting a girlfriend means they no longer have to play any games, dress up in a tux, or try very hard because they have it made now! I get the lazy reasoning behind all of that, but really, it’s not about sealing the deal, it’s about maintenance.

Naw, Jess had put the barrier back up, only unlike when she’d first met Matt, he was super-angry that it was there! She had to treat him as if they had no past because he was using the past as if it was a one way ticket to wonderland.

If there is one thing she was a delegated pro at, it was abrupt switches in place, time, and moment. Asshole-ish, yes, but she got away with it. She liked being able to control how she came and went. At the beginning of Junior year she’d loved letting Matt go down on her for hours, but she was at a new apex where she wanted to be able to decide the course and trajectory of a romance right down to the details in the scripting.

Of course, Matt turned into a major asshole. Whereas he used to be the guy that Jess could call up with questions about her physics homework, he turned into that guy- the one that makes jeering remarks in public to humiliate.

He went from being a supportive agent- telling people how brilliant she was, how cool, how multifaceted, yack yack yack- to the boastful enemy. He wanted her to know just what she’d lost. She was nothing without his praise.

Which, by the way, is how guys feel when we stop getting off..

When she felt she sucked at something, he’d boosted her spirits without fail, telling her “you are being way too hard on yourself, you overwhelm yourself so you have no choice but to sabotage the school term by not having enough time logistically no matter how talented you are!”

But after he saw how difficult she made it for them to hook up, he acted like another person. When she confronted him and said “hey, why are you different now? It’s not fair that you are mean just because I want things to be platonic now.”

He thought what Jess said over with a hungdog look, then replied “You’re right. I’m sorry. You are my best friend and nobody is closer to me except for my mom.”

Watch out, hon! When guys call you a best friend.. It’s a big red flag. So, you’d think this would have been the end of it for them, but it wasn’t. Her “frigid” tone was death. (For the record, Jess was never frigid, just bitchy. Especially since she had to make boundaries extra-difficult just for him, and he’d see that other people didn’t get the same treatment. They had it easier, he thought! How unfair.)

I know you are thinking “If I had a hunky Matt by my side I wouldn’t have done that.. I would give him everything he needs.” Don’t think that! Don’t be the hussy. You’ll see other slut-girls doing that and it’s a mistake you don’t want to make.

Jessica would tell him about dates she’d go on, and because she didn’t have any close female friends to do the “girltalk thing” with he would respond nastily.

“Shut up about your exploits, you think you are some dog bringing me a bone?”

Matt and his language! No wonder he couldn’t get a girl! Although, the poets were much worse…

But she found this preferable to wanting to be with nobody. It was a boost for her self-esteem. But in his eyes, it meant Jess would rather be lonely and miserable than hook up with him! That was a blow. He’d rather go back to seeing her flirt with the tools!

Now, explaining all this to you, I am so NOT more confused than when I started. What I’m trying to say is that when you are capable of fierce, unadulterated, even painful passion, you don’t like to be put in the place of a caged animal. You must become capable of complete sociopathic behavior.. And so you turn into somebody who flinches if a person so much as places a hand on your shoulder when you don’t feel like it. Hypersensitive is hypersexual, right? Hypervigilant is hyperactive. Superpowers have downsides.

You’ll probably prefer to go a few months between partners. You should prefer the partners you do have to be people you can’t talk to easily. Always opt for the challenge. And never call relationships “relationships.” They are “games,” “experiments” or maybe just “attempt not to be substantial.” I mean, tied down. But tied down is fun. Held back? Held back can be fun too. Oh, whatever! To keep the slut persona going, you don’t do relationships.

Matt would randomly come back to Jess like a lost puppy, finding that other girls were much more difficult. (I know, right>) But after a few days of “hanging out,” he would switch his tune and tell her they couldn’t be friends anymore since she was denying him the connection they used to have.

“You have lots of suppressed rage at your mother,” she told him, snickering. “Mommy found your porn stash again?” Matts mom was a Jehovas Witness, so that was something people made fun of him for. (Always take careful note of peoples weaknesses.)

His mom had unrealistic expectations. Then again what mother doesn’t? She wanted his son to be chaste, but she didn’t want him alone and unhappy. Matt found this chasm impossible to breach. He couldn’t find any glue to hold the two disparate ideals together, and he was a fellow that gave up too easily. As a result of the hypocrisy at home, he stored up too much anger, then unleashed it on any girl who rejected him physically.

Matt played the social game. (Don’t think just because they’re close to you that, well, they’re actually close to you.) He denigrated girls who did spread their legs for him, because he decided they weren’t good enough to be with him.

“Oh, the cokehead whore? Well, we had a good time, but she just wasnt girlfriend material.” Such a common male attitude. Turn cokehead to redhead and you know what half the males at Tacoma Prep are saying. Tsk tsk. What does a guy expect? Matt was the type that you know will leave school full of promise, then enter some kind of stupor- 1) the high expectations, 2) the reality, 3) the chasm between the two- and remain unemployed. He’ll live at home with mom and never have money.

When a guy does not obey even the simplest social courtesies… well, it’s a very bad sign.

When guys meet up with a girl of their own kind, their own status- (yes, we still have class in this day and age)- they find the girl repulsive. All the things they hate in themself they finally see in somebody else. Only she’s really not even as bad! Guys are always delusional about their status. They aim too high, girls aim too low. While she at least holds down a job, be it at a grocery store, he’ll never work! His expectations will never be in line with reality. And does he think about the girls he claimed were not good enough and remember them fondly, wishing he had tried harder? No!He really doesn’t consider them at all!

It’s really important not to be too impressed with any one trait. Super-athletic? So what. Incredibly talented and artistic? Okay. Brainy with a high IQ? Look for the one who can hold it all together. They tend to be the one that can actually live up to their dreams.

You’d think guys could treat you like one of the guys, especially since you will make the mistake of spending all your time with them. (Don’t deny it. “They’re not as catty as the girls,” you’ll say.) You’ll say it’s not sexual. But no, they will never treat you like one of them. And really, why want that? He’ll resent the fact that he feels he has to be nicer to you than the guys, that there is something to figure out, that chivalry dictates one thing while feminism (which one? There are so many types!) says another…  If he spends extra time on you, tutors you, and hangs out with you because you are a girl, don’t be surprised when he surreptitiously blames you for being unable to meet other girls. “If only I hadn’t been spending time with her..”

You’re surprised that you became a Her?

Honestly.

As for the guy who is most loyal.. well, their yearbook quote will read, “most likely to live under a bridge.”Okay, it won’t read that, but it should! So, in all likelihood he might end up being somebody spectacularly brilliant, so they don’t insert the quote there. Hope is everywhere. Adulthood isn’t something that affects people in high school! Playing hooky, lying, getting stoned, avoiding class, that doesn’t mean you would do that with a job! Preparation for life is nothing like how you’ll behave once you  have the life they want!

That’s a lie, don’t fall for it. On the flip side, just because you’re valedictorian doesn’t mean you can hold down a job. It doesn’t mean you’re set up for life. Or say you’re the prom queen: doesn’t mean that beauty and charm will always get you what you need.

The players all want to be hustlers and pimps in terms of their mindset. They think there’s no limit to the punches they can pull. These girls will break rules just so that they seem unattractive. And why? Yes, they want experience. They pretend they will do anything. They say it’s never for closeness, but because they feel sheltered and they need something on their internal resume. The truth is usually in the rift in between two disparate ideas.

You’ll play games, and you’ll make things too complicated. I know you are a tease.

Posted in experiment, high school, I think..., raw, rewrite, sex | Leave a comment

becoming a feminine ideal requires just the right amount of insecurity, don’t skimp

 .. 2012 ReWrite

and what do you think is underneath? Under the surface that could be removed, would YOU find satisfaction in completely fresh skin, a starry smile, and a chest that inspires a volley of prayers, makes the world crawl under its radiance, would you see a happy ending sunset, long pink boas of cotton batting, arching, through the sky, or would there be nothing at all, even less than capillaries and lack of symmmetry, a crater lower than disappointment, mutations failing to turn into gold and becoming something completely different, something no one has ever seen, the desolation of a body deserted by itself, slabs of meat that you dont dare name, I really dont know but it couldnt stop there, oh no, not yet, you’d always find something else to peel away layer by layer, some part of a body to lose, deport, an anorexic hollowing out her belly, her tomb, and dont start thinking it’s the exception, because it isnt, millions of women make a career out of their body, an art out of food,  mastery of their mouth on pieces of fruit so small they make you cry, and above all, there’s the message they send to others, take a good look at me and know how fat you are, look what’s hanging under your ass, look what’s slipping off your sides and jiggling to the rhythmn of your walk, how disgusting, being that heavy can’t be endured if you are going to go on living, women often have too much of what they have, they are too much what they are, nailed to their sex and what is said about it, hopeless at reinventing their history or conceiving of life outside of fashion magazine polls, continually alienated from what they think they should be, bimbos who have orgasms when they’re supposed to, bimbos with such and such a waist measurement and such and such a hairdo, who dont want anything and always want more.

Posted in body issues, contagious emptiness, free prose, unattended needs | 1 Comment