The covers are warm and inviting, and heedless of his redolence. They want only his lust for sloth, his naked embrace of textiles. It is so simple to collapse into them, taking mind to keep at least one orifice pointed gargoyle-like over the edge of the bed; a combination theory and experience has taught him the value of choosing the orifice most connected to his various breathing/life-sustaining parts. Semi-paralyzed in a sea of cotton and synthetic fibre, his mouth flops open and closed as much as could be expected from any such landed creature unused to the unyielding firmament. He can only just breathe, escalating to a wave and crest of hyperventilation. A joint actually moves, the precursor of total motionlessness. Dream, dream, dream... Bittersweet, as always, is the amber wave of memory that he plummets into.
Memories of the first, a title so well-deserved, bubble to the top, bringing words as gentle and soft as could be. Thoughts of her, next to him, warm with the gentle play of hands on hands and suggestive smoothing of her back- on a dare, almost, his hand might move next to her face on the carpet, a bold gesture for the secret prize of closeness, of having her warm breath fall gently onto his fingers. Remember the wide eyes when she looped up her foot to bring it around his ankle, playfully rubbing that in the mind turned to images of subtle games played under tables by winking lovers, socked toes darting furtively up leggings to caress bare calves-
Her face, and body, a mirror image of his except in the broken symmetry where she had crossed over heel-to-heel, where his hand rested just moments away from her cheeks. Pale hazel eyes, always on him, glinting with bare appreciation-- warm embers of the usual fire, perhaps doused by an unusual sense of trepidation.
“Jason...” It was intended as more than the whisper it came out as, evident in the way she kept parting her lips, eyes darting up and down his face.
At this point, even a usual preference for risk-aversion would have dipped itself in purple, torn off its overgarments and gone screaming into a crowd of hungry dogs.
Hungry dogs, right.
As an archer pulls the bowstring taut, so deliberate was his hand motion, fingers coming to rest on the angle of her jaw. Gentle, but firm, utterly driven.
But it was unnecessary. His patience was replied to with startling immediacy, and as their lips met, an almost overwhelming distraction from the sudden trauma to his nose might have ruined everything.
Not now, not with that one moment. No time for the minor naggings of pain when his face was flushed with the sudden flare of their heat.
Here, he is almost pushed, in his dreams, to a finite regression, remembering those other 'firsts': fumbling and sweaty apologies for experience trotted out by a constant hormonal screaming. Then, it was all about making it to the next level, tasting for the first time that salty pinched flesh between trying-it-rough teeth. Then, it was spit and tongues, and the tickle of nostril-breath on your cheeks as, for the first time, you felt someone else's tooth enamel. Then, it was a time of shameful surprises that creep up on you before you're even aware of them, and the rest of the exercise becomes a disaster management scenario that only now can bring at best a wan smile of stupider times.
But back in the first, that puncturing of overcast and cloudy memories by that wholly different need for the sun to shine, and having just that one moment to show you what the good days can look like, and what the best days might look like if you're lucky enough to live them for as long as you can. Fireworks in your head, scattering the stars.
So you do what you can do, for anyone who shows you that bright side. You let them know how much they're needed, how much you ache for them and that it's built to a passion and a lust by even the littlest glimpses.
Pull her to, pull her on top. Pull her in closer and curl your fingers into her braided hair-
“God..”
And everything about her says 'yes'.
And everything she has smiles as the first buttons pop out.
And the only thing he wants is for her to see his face beyond the stupid 'oh' that is all he can manage in the cascade of skin as she falls to him, followed by the rush of his hands...
To see...
'Cruelty, thy name is Consciousness, thou pigfucker' he rails, grasping and gasping on the suddenly-there linoleum tiles, his face plunged into the mercifully white toilet. 'You utter fuck.'
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Identification Please
The morning routine, pronounced usually with an emphatic 'rut-een' in the minds of most of the workers, settled in with the traditional rush of the coffee machine's dispensation of the morning's necessary allotment of stimulation mixed with refreshing mocha, the earnest creak of asses taking up residence in their appointed desk-chairs, and the unprotesting hum of monitors and terminals as they too were sped into their own awakenings. Fingers twitched with the false anticipation of trying to remember the passwords they'd inputted only yesterday.
Someone entered his first dog's name.
Another entered her birthdate.
Another entered her favourite football team's mascot.
Another entered in sequence the name of his wife, son, and daughter, compressed into a 12-character response.
Yet another typed in his favourite Godzilla movie (simply and perhaps a bit unimaginatively, 'Godzilla' out of reverence for the Japanese original).
Yet another rapidly entered in the name of a certain game show host, whose image was brought to mind whenever she attended to the intimate needs of her boyfriend. The conditioned response of this always made her hips shiver, and nobody could see into the cubicle to wonder why she would lick her lips and pout her jaw with heavy breath.
Another entered an alpha-neumeric sequence that contained the maximum allowed number of characters for any permissible password. The illusion of unbreakable security that this gave was unbroken by the fact that it was so complicated that it had to be copied from a sticky-note attached to his monitor, helpfully prefaced with the heading “Password:”.
Another entered his mother's maiden name.
Another entered, with a dreamy look on his face, the song that had been playing when he'd lost his virginity, a rather unplanned venture involving a shuffled CD-changer that had happened upon his little sister's boy-band best-of. The dreamy look was nothing if not guilty.
Another entered the name of his patron Saint.
Another entered her dream car's make and model.
The entire floor had progressed from a trickle of keyboard clicks from the chicken-typing lot whose newness was further announced by a refusal to plunge into coffee addiction, instead heading to their desks with an enthusiasm and desperation to make impressions that in itself would achieve the end of its life-span in a matter of weeks. Now, the steady resonance of inputs poured freely, an avalanche of the speed-typing veterans whose pupils firmly moulded into the picture of caffeinated concentration.
Only one man still sat at his desk, oblivious to the city-enveloping sun that shone through one of the few windows. The one man who knew without error each of his floor workers' memoir, coveted as it had been to be the first willed recollection in the morning rut-een. It was a window into each character, compressed into a 5-20 character appreciation. Just as well they reminded themselves what they were working for, why they were here, imprisoned as much by their contractual obligations as by their earnest desires for their passions-- their passwords. Individual, unique, and binding. Employee identification, employee identity.
And he alone would scrutinize them wordlessly. He would keep track of whether they would be kept in line by their dedication, or fall into unproductive distraction. His task, and his job: the watcher, the voyeur, the man who made it his work to oversee.
The monitor flashed, demanding his input.
“Panopticon.”
Someone entered his first dog's name.
Another entered her birthdate.
Another entered her favourite football team's mascot.
Another entered in sequence the name of his wife, son, and daughter, compressed into a 12-character response.
Yet another typed in his favourite Godzilla movie (simply and perhaps a bit unimaginatively, 'Godzilla' out of reverence for the Japanese original).
Yet another rapidly entered in the name of a certain game show host, whose image was brought to mind whenever she attended to the intimate needs of her boyfriend. The conditioned response of this always made her hips shiver, and nobody could see into the cubicle to wonder why she would lick her lips and pout her jaw with heavy breath.
Another entered an alpha-neumeric sequence that contained the maximum allowed number of characters for any permissible password. The illusion of unbreakable security that this gave was unbroken by the fact that it was so complicated that it had to be copied from a sticky-note attached to his monitor, helpfully prefaced with the heading “Password:”.
Another entered his mother's maiden name.
Another entered, with a dreamy look on his face, the song that had been playing when he'd lost his virginity, a rather unplanned venture involving a shuffled CD-changer that had happened upon his little sister's boy-band best-of. The dreamy look was nothing if not guilty.
Another entered the name of his patron Saint.
Another entered her dream car's make and model.
The entire floor had progressed from a trickle of keyboard clicks from the chicken-typing lot whose newness was further announced by a refusal to plunge into coffee addiction, instead heading to their desks with an enthusiasm and desperation to make impressions that in itself would achieve the end of its life-span in a matter of weeks. Now, the steady resonance of inputs poured freely, an avalanche of the speed-typing veterans whose pupils firmly moulded into the picture of caffeinated concentration.
Only one man still sat at his desk, oblivious to the city-enveloping sun that shone through one of the few windows. The one man who knew without error each of his floor workers' memoir, coveted as it had been to be the first willed recollection in the morning rut-een. It was a window into each character, compressed into a 5-20 character appreciation. Just as well they reminded themselves what they were working for, why they were here, imprisoned as much by their contractual obligations as by their earnest desires for their passions-- their passwords. Individual, unique, and binding. Employee identification, employee identity.
And he alone would scrutinize them wordlessly. He would keep track of whether they would be kept in line by their dedication, or fall into unproductive distraction. His task, and his job: the watcher, the voyeur, the man who made it his work to oversee.
The monitor flashed, demanding his input.
“Panopticon.”
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Saturday in Soweto
The city pulsed into the hospital on a nightly basis, a collection of fresh scars, scabs, and throbbing masses that would bounce moans of pain off the sweat-covered walls from which the paint bubbled and chipped. A hell of humidity turned the air into a near-clotting fluid one had to wade through.
Anticipation was almost enough to supplant the need for coffee- almost- as if adrenaline from the probable flood to come kept everyone breathing. But it was early yet, and so Roos Hoek filled her senses with the least offensive blend of Java available. Just one cup of it, no more or else caffeinated alacrity will turn to a set of nerves that won’t stop humming with activity, overcharged and out of control.Unsurprisingly decaf can’t be found fresh in the break room. The last jar is a cake of powder that has fused into a sweaty solid, bleeding oil and essence.
“How’s it?”
Pieterzoon, already out of his scrubs and disquietingly clean. Blonde sweatless brows seemed entirely alien given the morning perspiration that clung to every other surface. “It’s them blerry payday weekends, eh? Ag man, I don’t envy you tonight, not at all.” He’d speak in English to be understood, heavily accented in English-Dutch inflection. Roos was, after all, only Dutch in name, and still blanked
whenever peppered with Afrikaans by conclusion-jumpers who saw just another Afrikaaner who spoke the language. Hell, she spoke more French than anything else, having only elected to take English to escape the bored townships of Provence. With that, she found herself in Johannesburg. Peachy. Be careful what you wish for.
She tilted her head, shrugging. “It doesn’t help that Thabola and Mbosi are still out on holiday for another few days.”
“Fok aye. You know those tits try to put themselves out of harm’s way on these nights by penciling in vacation time years in advance.”
“Don’t be so cynical, man. They’re at the top for a reason. --And before you say it, that reason isn’t Mandela.”
Pieterzoon dropped his eyes. “Whatever, girl, whatever.” A sigh. “I’m out for the shut-eye and peaceful recuperation. Say high to the dronkies for me, eh?”
He brushed past her without another word, almost brusquely. Maybe he was right, maybe he wasn’t, she couldn’t say, but dammit, why did everyone have to be so goddamned touchy about it.
Well, it’s not like they didn’t have a history of it, mmm, muttered her inner voice, now they’re just grumpy that the shoe is on the other foot. But nothing was that simple. Apartheid had switched to reverse racism, and the iron-clad oppression of bigotry had for a brief while been swept away, only to fall into a disjointed attempt to control a population discovering freedom without the gradual acknowledgment of its excesses.
Hell of a way to start the day. Hell of a reminder.
“Et merde,” she muttered to herself.
Saturday afternoon, and already temperatures were running high, a fever of cheers from everyone who'd slaved through the week with the expectation that they could now reap the rewards. Money, freshly minted, flowing opposite the stream of cans and bottles into plastic bags. The sun still breathing down peeling necks, thirsts were still being created rather than quenched. What better cure to the burden of thirst than with newfound libation? It was an answer that trickled into minds as the hours wore on and the boots came off, and by the time the horizon had pinched off the heat of day, liquid relaxation flowed freely.
Already Roos was blinking hard in the haze of stale beer and belched curry as the starting wave came slopping in, dragged by fortunately sober friends who passed the time by blending in with the crowd, passing between themselves drinks with feigned covertness. But few took heed of the drunk and orderly when there were their counterparts to mind. The sound of a pleading spew of vomit from a teenager was as much a starter's pistol as she was going to get.
Good evening, Soweto...
Anticipation was almost enough to supplant the need for coffee- almost- as if adrenaline from the probable flood to come kept everyone breathing. But it was early yet, and so Roos Hoek filled her senses with the least offensive blend of Java available. Just one cup of it, no more or else caffeinated alacrity will turn to a set of nerves that won’t stop humming with activity, overcharged and out of control.Unsurprisingly decaf can’t be found fresh in the break room. The last jar is a cake of powder that has fused into a sweaty solid, bleeding oil and essence.
“How’s it?”
Pieterzoon, already out of his scrubs and disquietingly clean. Blonde sweatless brows seemed entirely alien given the morning perspiration that clung to every other surface. “It’s them blerry payday weekends, eh? Ag man, I don’t envy you tonight, not at all.” He’d speak in English to be understood, heavily accented in English-Dutch inflection. Roos was, after all, only Dutch in name, and still blanked
whenever peppered with Afrikaans by conclusion-jumpers who saw just another Afrikaaner who spoke the language. Hell, she spoke more French than anything else, having only elected to take English to escape the bored townships of Provence. With that, she found herself in Johannesburg. Peachy. Be careful what you wish for.
She tilted her head, shrugging. “It doesn’t help that Thabola and Mbosi are still out on holiday for another few days.”
“Fok aye. You know those tits try to put themselves out of harm’s way on these nights by penciling in vacation time years in advance.”
“Don’t be so cynical, man. They’re at the top for a reason. --And before you say it, that reason isn’t Mandela.”
Pieterzoon dropped his eyes. “Whatever, girl, whatever.” A sigh. “I’m out for the shut-eye and peaceful recuperation. Say high to the dronkies for me, eh?”
He brushed past her without another word, almost brusquely. Maybe he was right, maybe he wasn’t, she couldn’t say, but dammit, why did everyone have to be so goddamned touchy about it.
Well, it’s not like they didn’t have a history of it, mmm, muttered her inner voice, now they’re just grumpy that the shoe is on the other foot. But nothing was that simple. Apartheid had switched to reverse racism, and the iron-clad oppression of bigotry had for a brief while been swept away, only to fall into a disjointed attempt to control a population discovering freedom without the gradual acknowledgment of its excesses.
Hell of a way to start the day. Hell of a reminder.
“Et merde,” she muttered to herself.
Saturday afternoon, and already temperatures were running high, a fever of cheers from everyone who'd slaved through the week with the expectation that they could now reap the rewards. Money, freshly minted, flowing opposite the stream of cans and bottles into plastic bags. The sun still breathing down peeling necks, thirsts were still being created rather than quenched. What better cure to the burden of thirst than with newfound libation? It was an answer that trickled into minds as the hours wore on and the boots came off, and by the time the horizon had pinched off the heat of day, liquid relaxation flowed freely.
Already Roos was blinking hard in the haze of stale beer and belched curry as the starting wave came slopping in, dragged by fortunately sober friends who passed the time by blending in with the crowd, passing between themselves drinks with feigned covertness. But few took heed of the drunk and orderly when there were their counterparts to mind. The sound of a pleading spew of vomit from a teenager was as much a starter's pistol as she was going to get.
Good evening, Soweto...
Thursday, June 17, 2010
A glint of something
She marked the time with the patter of her fork, slow and seemingly purposeful chews separating each and every tick against the cheap china. She was out of uniform, so it was fine having her eat listlessly at the counter. A few of the regulars not convinced enough to buy cheap eats elsewhere would be all that would recognize her, given that was both the usual hostess and easily the prettiest worker at the rest (no doubt the two were connected), the rest of the workers seeming to have succumbed to the undesirable combination of affliction that comes when gravity meets cellulite. Lydia's only droop seemed the usual one around the edges of her mouth, not simply because of the feigned exuberance that put prospective customers in motion towards their waiting booths. Always, from management- 'Happy workers, happy customers, happy meals', even for smiles kept up by toothpicks.
“You'd better eat some of that, darlin'.” Said Catie
It was true. While Lydia was the prettiest, it was in spite of, not because of, a rather rail-thin figure. The manager, were it not for Lydia's stalwart consistency, would have felt more genuine in whispering things about cocaine and amphetamine rather than that founded only in jealousy of the young girl's figure.
“Trying.” Said Lydia.
The truth was that her mind was rather far away from there, lost to the endless discharge of precipitates from the asphalt arteries that burst into the diner with a disjoint of baseball caps, tattoos, and sad Middle America affectation that leads to premature droop and a sort of pansexual hirsuteness around the face and jowels. Wobbling chins and all-day breakfasts smothered in table syrup and served with crackling pig fat fresh off the sheet grill. Days wore you down rather than simply wearing on as might be expected. Little pills from the doctor, yellow tabs to treat the blue days, but more often than not they just left you with your mouth dry and your seat wet. A perfect match, perhaps, to the palms sticky with fake-maple sugar.
Lydia could still hear her mother's voice, the strong Vermont can-do pout, “Table syrup, more the misnomer than you can imagine, little Liddy. None of that junk on the table, not on my watch, not ever.”
The thought of this would make Lydia sink more towards her plate, towards the fries smothered in the alien vinegar rather than the common ketchup.
“You wouldn't believe what we got today.” Said Catie, quite prepared to accept the possibility that Lydia would, in fact, believe it. “Some queer from New York comes in and asks for a veggie burger. Annie was serving him, and had to be shown just where on the menu it was! I tell you, I don't get those queers- they won't eat meat, but why? So afraid of eating their own, but they all look more like the beansprouts they eat to me!”
Lydia continued to dig her fork into the malt-and-bitter-smelling frenchfries, staring blankly at the little chips that would fly off from the crisp little strings.
“He got the dipping veggies, and we had to find a bottle of ranch dressing- just for him. He just returned it to us after the meal, said he didn't need none of it, said that we could keep it for other customers. Chef and I had a big laugh pouring that little shot of ranch back into the bottle!”
Still, Lydia's fixation had dulled her to her friend- instead she found herself trapped in a thought that kept at her, growing in spite of attempts at ignoring it. Embers, she now thought, stoking her fries as if they were fires on the logs.
“Exactly like embers!” Boomed Mom, glancing to and from traffic at the sporadic pirouettes of light along the highway-side. The bright orange gobs of fire that lept up from the tall grass and the cat-tails of greenery held her mouth open in a constant 'oh' of wondrous fascination.
Mom had pulled over some time later, where Lydia had danced about waving her hands exultantly in a rambling chase to catch a handful of fire. But Mom was quicker, and fast as quicksilver had a fistful of quiet light. It seemed to snore between Mom's fingertips, waxing and waning- and the gasp when she parted her hands to show the source...
Lydia started up, the floor protesting the sudden movement of the chair she'd tortuously dragged along it. She smiled at Catie, who could only look back quizically.
“What's gotten into you? You're all smiles. Weirrrrrd.”
“I,” announced Lydia, no small hint of confidence, “am going out to catch some fireflies.”
"You sure there's still enough light out?"
"That's exactly what I'm going to catch!"
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Mother, standing, walking a skipping child back from school, swinging a basket of food gaily in her off-hand. Peals of laughter mingling with peels of zesty tangerines, unraveled as they walked by fingers sticky with their juices. Mother and son, making faces with orange segments, confidently confiding in the other about the distance to be had by seed-spitting. She let him win, of course. His day out, her day off, the rest of the week’s inevitable toiling washed away in a little wooden crate of sunshine hidden among the rest of the produce.
“Do they grow on vines, mom?”
“Vines, dear boy,” came the voice of wisdom, still laden with Belfast-bereft-of-bombs. “Why, no. You’re thinking of grapes and tomatoes.” The boy wrinkled his nose at the thought of the bitter tomato, whose inclusion in his mother’s usual breakfast choice frustrated him almost as much as her repeated attempts to convince him that it was a fruit. Nothing as bitter and horrible as a tomato could be a fruit. “Tangerines grow on great trees in orchards. Like the way they grow apples and lemons and- and coconuts.”
“Coconuts grow on palm trees! I learned that today!”
“You’re right they do, m’boy. On big trees that grow out of the sandy soil like arms of giants buried in the sand.”
“Arms! Wow!” The child paused, holding one cheek in a still-sticky palm. “So- that’s why they’re called palm trees, because they have a hand at the end of them?”
She laughed. “That may well be the case. You’ll just have to find out.”
“I will! I will!”
The exuberance of youth, the constant energy and wide-eyed wonder piled on top of Vel-Cro sneakers, mismatched socks, and scraped jeans stained with dew and chlorophyll. Matching stains on the elbows and palms of his hands meant that he’d probably been spending another sunny afternoon face firmly pointed earthwards, watching insects climb the micro-metropolis of grass and weeds.
“Can we get a tangerine tree, mom? I’d feed it and water it and climb in it.”
“Alas, dear boy, there’s nowhere to plant it. We’ve no lawn to speak of, and no back-yard that isn’t covered in rock. We’d not only need to buy somewhere new, but also somewhere warm and nice for tangerines to grow.”
“But why can’t we?”
She paused for a moment, slipping in stride and suddenly tired. “Because we’re not able to buy things like that, dear boy, I’m sorry.”
The boy paused, looking up at his mother, suddenly feeling like he’d said something rude or wrong, like asking grown-ups how old they were. It was an ache, having that kind of thing be so possible, that the simple things and questions could really hurt someone. Even the person who kisses it better can be so vulnerable to their own little collection of nicks and cuts. He wanted to ask if they were poor, but he felt with horrid certainty that this was another question that might hurt her, or make her sad. These things might have been as true as the little scrapes, but they could still hurt, and very much so.
He grabbed her suddenly, little arms circling around her hips, face pressing into her abdomen.
“What’s wrong? Jason, are you alright?”
Their eyes met, a vertical stare. “I’m fine, mom.”
“Well then,” she said, suddenly bursting into laughter, “that’s grand.”
It was. Hand in sticky hand, they resumed their walk. But the thought lingered with Jason, having been confirmed: even grown-ups need someone to make it better. Maybe everyone does. Maybe everyone needs someone to be special for them, someone different from everyone who just calls them by their name, someone who says ‘dear’ or ‘honey’, or ‘buddy’, or best of all, Mom. Someone who knew more than just a stitched-on nametag on an anonymity-ensuring uniform- Not just Eily Connolly, but Mom.
His mother kept her smile, and started to hum- “When Irish Eyes are Smi-liiing….”
“Do they grow on vines, mom?”
“Vines, dear boy,” came the voice of wisdom, still laden with Belfast-bereft-of-bombs. “Why, no. You’re thinking of grapes and tomatoes.” The boy wrinkled his nose at the thought of the bitter tomato, whose inclusion in his mother’s usual breakfast choice frustrated him almost as much as her repeated attempts to convince him that it was a fruit. Nothing as bitter and horrible as a tomato could be a fruit. “Tangerines grow on great trees in orchards. Like the way they grow apples and lemons and- and coconuts.”
“Coconuts grow on palm trees! I learned that today!”
“You’re right they do, m’boy. On big trees that grow out of the sandy soil like arms of giants buried in the sand.”
“Arms! Wow!” The child paused, holding one cheek in a still-sticky palm. “So- that’s why they’re called palm trees, because they have a hand at the end of them?”
She laughed. “That may well be the case. You’ll just have to find out.”
“I will! I will!”
The exuberance of youth, the constant energy and wide-eyed wonder piled on top of Vel-Cro sneakers, mismatched socks, and scraped jeans stained with dew and chlorophyll. Matching stains on the elbows and palms of his hands meant that he’d probably been spending another sunny afternoon face firmly pointed earthwards, watching insects climb the micro-metropolis of grass and weeds.
“Can we get a tangerine tree, mom? I’d feed it and water it and climb in it.”
“Alas, dear boy, there’s nowhere to plant it. We’ve no lawn to speak of, and no back-yard that isn’t covered in rock. We’d not only need to buy somewhere new, but also somewhere warm and nice for tangerines to grow.”
“But why can’t we?”
She paused for a moment, slipping in stride and suddenly tired. “Because we’re not able to buy things like that, dear boy, I’m sorry.”
The boy paused, looking up at his mother, suddenly feeling like he’d said something rude or wrong, like asking grown-ups how old they were. It was an ache, having that kind of thing be so possible, that the simple things and questions could really hurt someone. Even the person who kisses it better can be so vulnerable to their own little collection of nicks and cuts. He wanted to ask if they were poor, but he felt with horrid certainty that this was another question that might hurt her, or make her sad. These things might have been as true as the little scrapes, but they could still hurt, and very much so.
He grabbed her suddenly, little arms circling around her hips, face pressing into her abdomen.
“What’s wrong? Jason, are you alright?”
Their eyes met, a vertical stare. “I’m fine, mom.”
“Well then,” she said, suddenly bursting into laughter, “that’s grand.”
It was. Hand in sticky hand, they resumed their walk. But the thought lingered with Jason, having been confirmed: even grown-ups need someone to make it better. Maybe everyone does. Maybe everyone needs someone to be special for them, someone different from everyone who just calls them by their name, someone who says ‘dear’ or ‘honey’, or ‘buddy’, or best of all, Mom. Someone who knew more than just a stitched-on nametag on an anonymity-ensuring uniform- Not just Eily Connolly, but Mom.
His mother kept her smile, and started to hum- “When Irish Eyes are Smi-liiing….”
Monday, May 31, 2010
Dogmatic Law
And ye, it came to pass that the Fellow became Steward of the palace, that heavenly kingdom so situated above the clouds and with the Divine miracle of Central Air. Humble he was, wearing nothing about the feet so that he could be constantly be in the divine presence of the carpeting, the linoleum, and the holy wood so-laminated that the Fellow would streak across it as did Tom Cruise before him in Risky Business.
And the Lady did say to him, "Guard well my kingdom in my absence, for I fly to realms of heady knowledge to convene with wisdoms great and powerful. I entrust in you the sanctity of this place".
And there was love in his heart that day as she ascended into a yellow carriage of brilliantly illuminated splendor (for the foglights had been installed). And he did lie in the bed, removing his socks to again touch the august glory of the firmament- the carpeting, the linoleum, and the holy wood so-mentioned as laminated.
But lo, a Despoiler was about the lands, slothful and cruel. With cloven paws and an arrogant parasol as a tail, he but basked in the radiance of his own glory, tracing his lineage back to the ancient clan of Shihtzu beasts.
But the Despoiler was in the kingdom, and the Fellow, not wishing to falter in his duties, did offer comfort and fine feasts. For a time, there was peace, but as foretold, that era came to a close some hours later, when the Despoiler befouled the firmament with his essence.
The Fellow, not wanting to re-don his flipflips and kneesocks, rose up in anger, hurling at the Despoiler a litany of abuse. But the Despoiler, above the petty threats of the Fellow, stared blankly on. The Fellow, again, not wishing to be negligent in his tasks, grovelled and mopped as he was want to do. For a time, there was contentment, but again as foretold, such things do not last longer than sitcoms, and there would be untold suffering abound.
A time of great thunder approached, and the Fellow, secure in the sanctity of the place, wavered not as the sky bubbled with anger, roaring at the arrogance to build a tower such as this and not sublet. The Fellow stood his ground, and turned once more to his studies. This was not well with the Despoiler, who instead took to the highest point in the realm that he could reach-- on top of the fellow. Subjugated, humiliated, the Fellow was the Despoiler's pillar as the latter shivered with rage, grimacing and bellowing at the thunder. Neither would relent, and the Fellow, diligent to his burden, muttered again to himself through the night.
Tired of their tirade, the storm left to other parts, and the Fellow, weak and deprived of rest, collapsed gratefully as the Despoiler dismounted for its own rest.
"I beg of you, Despoiler" said the Fellow, "Follow me to the gardens and expend your essence, for it cannot be spilled here, in this place."
But the Despoiler was very proud, and still rather miffed about the whole storm thing. Its cloven paws did not stray from the firmament, and the Fellow wearily resigned himself to the sheets.
It would not be long before the Fellow awoke with the start. The storm had returned to its adversary, the Despoiler, who glared angrily at the Fellow, conscripting him once more to the task of unwilling mount. But the Fellow, frankly less willing to put up with this shit, denied the Despoiler.
The foolishness of the Fellow was as great in magnitude as the fury and wrath of the Despoiler, who turned to the firmament in all his anger. The Fellow awoke once more to find the firmament desecrated beyond belief. The carpet befouled, the linoleum besmattered with filth, and the holy wood stained with vileness.
The Fellow wept, for he had been negligent in his duties. Against the might of the Despoiler, there was little reprieve. A great sadness filled his heart, as he turned from his studies to the comforts of the playwrites and muses of his imagination's theaters. The Fellow became enveloped in these musings, watching as the actors turned about on the stage. As if in a dream, a lofty being did turn his gaze onto the Fellow, and spoke in a harsh but powerful voice-- The Tucker.
"You doss cunt. You have forgotten yourself" said the Tucker, whose frail figure did not diminish his sense of command. "First time I've ever seen a massive poof overpowered by a smaller, more literal poof."
"But my Lord, I am but a servant, entrusted to the safety and protection of this place. I cannot hold against the Despoiler."
"Aye, ye winge-bag, not even the cacophony of your annoying voice would overpower the creature. But be not beholden unto him!" Thundered the Tucker, "For I, the All-Swearing Eye, shall kick so many shades of shit out of you that you'll be a whole new paint palette. Do yourself a bonny favor and discover you, a mere Fellow, has climbed the heady mounts of puberty and has grown a pair."
The Tucker was right, for when the Fellow placed his hands down his humble Jeans, he was met by the warming glow of courage, the overpowering if delightfully scented musk of which spurred him to action. The Fellow awoke with purpose, mustering himself for the task ahead.
Strange elixirs and ingredients were poured with foreign alchemy, implements were gathered from the far ends of the realm to combat the taint of the Despoiler. The Fellow stood, again bare-foot on the firmament, claiming his ground, defending his homeland.
For a time, there was great boistrousness, as the Fellow put himself and his alchemical'd tools to the firmament, renewing again the bounce of the carpet, the shine of the linoleum, and the proud sheen of the holy wood. The Despoiler watched as the Fellow moved with purpose through every cubit of space, marking the hallowed ground with purifying oils and lustrous pastes. Light shone once more through the realm, and for a time, it was good.
The Fellow had put down his tools, and had put himself to rest with a steaming bug of far-away Araby, and in his prosperity, grew blind to the sight of the Despoiler's encroaching presence.
Too late, the Fellow realized that he had erred most greviously, discovering that the Despoiler had befouled again all around them. Driven to his knees, the Fellow uttered a curse to the heavens-
"O most foul of beings! O horrid of sights! You who dumpeth under my place of feasting, within my sanctum of rest, my basket of linens runneth over with thy taint that runneth under and kind of beneath in this your Genenna, your Armageddon."
The Despoiler turned his piteous gaze on the Fellow, and with a silencing snuff, rolled over on his belly for tummy-rubs.
"No more, I say!" cried the Fellow, who turned with zeal to the thrice-tainted firmament. "No more!"
The Despoiler was unimpressed, and broke into a grin, knowing the futility of the Fellow's plight. All hope looked lost, when once again the words of the Tucker flew into the Fellow's heart- "Jaysus Christ, you pull yourself together or else I'll throttle you so hard you'll be talking like Freddy Mercury caught in his zipper."
With purpose, the Fellow rose from his obeisances, and grabbed at the Despoiler with all his might.
"Go and seek the confrontation with the heavens and the skies that you so desire!"
And the Fellow did fling the creature with all his might. The Despoiler did soar, panting with rage, before realizing escape velocity was unlikely without continuing propulsion. Bellowing his last, the Despoiler plunged earthwards to the asphalt with glorious liquidity. Still on the ramparts, the Fellow breathed again, filling his lungs with the Central Air, turning to feast on the grapefruits and microwaveable meals that awaited him, the triumphant man. The voice of the Tucker again filled his ears "Ah, don't get so full of yourself, wee man. Time yet for you to actually start growing hair in places of manhood."
And for a time it was good, and when the Lady returned again, bathed in redolent splendor and heady perfumes, the Fellow embraced her and held her close.
"You have done better than any other, my dear" she said. "My firmament is whole and pristine, as evinced by the brilliant fluff of the carpet, the quiet effervescence of the linoleum, and the shine on the holy wood so mirror-perfect that I can see up your trousers."
They did embrace again, the Fellow grateful to retire to an evening of headboard-damaging wholesomness. The Lady smiled at him, smirking ever so slightly. "And don't look now, but I think there's a bit of a puddle over there."
With horror and dread, the Fellow turned against the Lady's wishes, seeing that the holy wood, beautiful enough to eat off of, was again befouled. A heavy breath, the last he wanted to have, escaped him as his eyes fell upon the culprit. Untouched, unscathed, the Despoiler sat as he always did, lolling his tongue and rolling his eyes with horrible glee. Turning on his back, the Despoiler beckoned as always, ravenous for the comforts of tummy-rubs.
There would always be a firmament, a place to put one's bare feet, a place from which to know the unchanging presence and eternal comfort of its support. So it was the Despoiler, and for a time, for all time, there would be.
And the Lady did say to him, "Guard well my kingdom in my absence, for I fly to realms of heady knowledge to convene with wisdoms great and powerful. I entrust in you the sanctity of this place".
And there was love in his heart that day as she ascended into a yellow carriage of brilliantly illuminated splendor (for the foglights had been installed). And he did lie in the bed, removing his socks to again touch the august glory of the firmament- the carpeting, the linoleum, and the holy wood so-mentioned as laminated.
But lo, a Despoiler was about the lands, slothful and cruel. With cloven paws and an arrogant parasol as a tail, he but basked in the radiance of his own glory, tracing his lineage back to the ancient clan of Shihtzu beasts.
But the Despoiler was in the kingdom, and the Fellow, not wishing to falter in his duties, did offer comfort and fine feasts. For a time, there was peace, but as foretold, that era came to a close some hours later, when the Despoiler befouled the firmament with his essence.
The Fellow, not wanting to re-don his flipflips and kneesocks, rose up in anger, hurling at the Despoiler a litany of abuse. But the Despoiler, above the petty threats of the Fellow, stared blankly on. The Fellow, again, not wishing to be negligent in his tasks, grovelled and mopped as he was want to do. For a time, there was contentment, but again as foretold, such things do not last longer than sitcoms, and there would be untold suffering abound.
A time of great thunder approached, and the Fellow, secure in the sanctity of the place, wavered not as the sky bubbled with anger, roaring at the arrogance to build a tower such as this and not sublet. The Fellow stood his ground, and turned once more to his studies. This was not well with the Despoiler, who instead took to the highest point in the realm that he could reach-- on top of the fellow. Subjugated, humiliated, the Fellow was the Despoiler's pillar as the latter shivered with rage, grimacing and bellowing at the thunder. Neither would relent, and the Fellow, diligent to his burden, muttered again to himself through the night.
Tired of their tirade, the storm left to other parts, and the Fellow, weak and deprived of rest, collapsed gratefully as the Despoiler dismounted for its own rest.
"I beg of you, Despoiler" said the Fellow, "Follow me to the gardens and expend your essence, for it cannot be spilled here, in this place."
But the Despoiler was very proud, and still rather miffed about the whole storm thing. Its cloven paws did not stray from the firmament, and the Fellow wearily resigned himself to the sheets.
It would not be long before the Fellow awoke with the start. The storm had returned to its adversary, the Despoiler, who glared angrily at the Fellow, conscripting him once more to the task of unwilling mount. But the Fellow, frankly less willing to put up with this shit, denied the Despoiler.
The foolishness of the Fellow was as great in magnitude as the fury and wrath of the Despoiler, who turned to the firmament in all his anger. The Fellow awoke once more to find the firmament desecrated beyond belief. The carpet befouled, the linoleum besmattered with filth, and the holy wood stained with vileness.
The Fellow wept, for he had been negligent in his duties. Against the might of the Despoiler, there was little reprieve. A great sadness filled his heart, as he turned from his studies to the comforts of the playwrites and muses of his imagination's theaters. The Fellow became enveloped in these musings, watching as the actors turned about on the stage. As if in a dream, a lofty being did turn his gaze onto the Fellow, and spoke in a harsh but powerful voice-- The Tucker.
"You doss cunt. You have forgotten yourself" said the Tucker, whose frail figure did not diminish his sense of command. "First time I've ever seen a massive poof overpowered by a smaller, more literal poof."
"But my Lord, I am but a servant, entrusted to the safety and protection of this place. I cannot hold against the Despoiler."
"Aye, ye winge-bag, not even the cacophony of your annoying voice would overpower the creature. But be not beholden unto him!" Thundered the Tucker, "For I, the All-Swearing Eye, shall kick so many shades of shit out of you that you'll be a whole new paint palette. Do yourself a bonny favor and discover you, a mere Fellow, has climbed the heady mounts of puberty and has grown a pair."
The Tucker was right, for when the Fellow placed his hands down his humble Jeans, he was met by the warming glow of courage, the overpowering if delightfully scented musk of which spurred him to action. The Fellow awoke with purpose, mustering himself for the task ahead.
Strange elixirs and ingredients were poured with foreign alchemy, implements were gathered from the far ends of the realm to combat the taint of the Despoiler. The Fellow stood, again bare-foot on the firmament, claiming his ground, defending his homeland.
For a time, there was great boistrousness, as the Fellow put himself and his alchemical'd tools to the firmament, renewing again the bounce of the carpet, the shine of the linoleum, and the proud sheen of the holy wood. The Despoiler watched as the Fellow moved with purpose through every cubit of space, marking the hallowed ground with purifying oils and lustrous pastes. Light shone once more through the realm, and for a time, it was good.
The Fellow had put down his tools, and had put himself to rest with a steaming bug of far-away Araby, and in his prosperity, grew blind to the sight of the Despoiler's encroaching presence.
Too late, the Fellow realized that he had erred most greviously, discovering that the Despoiler had befouled again all around them. Driven to his knees, the Fellow uttered a curse to the heavens-
"O most foul of beings! O horrid of sights! You who dumpeth under my place of feasting, within my sanctum of rest, my basket of linens runneth over with thy taint that runneth under and kind of beneath in this your Genenna, your Armageddon."
The Despoiler turned his piteous gaze on the Fellow, and with a silencing snuff, rolled over on his belly for tummy-rubs.
"No more, I say!" cried the Fellow, who turned with zeal to the thrice-tainted firmament. "No more!"
The Despoiler was unimpressed, and broke into a grin, knowing the futility of the Fellow's plight. All hope looked lost, when once again the words of the Tucker flew into the Fellow's heart- "Jaysus Christ, you pull yourself together or else I'll throttle you so hard you'll be talking like Freddy Mercury caught in his zipper."
With purpose, the Fellow rose from his obeisances, and grabbed at the Despoiler with all his might.
"Go and seek the confrontation with the heavens and the skies that you so desire!"
And the Fellow did fling the creature with all his might. The Despoiler did soar, panting with rage, before realizing escape velocity was unlikely without continuing propulsion. Bellowing his last, the Despoiler plunged earthwards to the asphalt with glorious liquidity. Still on the ramparts, the Fellow breathed again, filling his lungs with the Central Air, turning to feast on the grapefruits and microwaveable meals that awaited him, the triumphant man. The voice of the Tucker again filled his ears "Ah, don't get so full of yourself, wee man. Time yet for you to actually start growing hair in places of manhood."
And for a time it was good, and when the Lady returned again, bathed in redolent splendor and heady perfumes, the Fellow embraced her and held her close.
"You have done better than any other, my dear" she said. "My firmament is whole and pristine, as evinced by the brilliant fluff of the carpet, the quiet effervescence of the linoleum, and the shine on the holy wood so mirror-perfect that I can see up your trousers."
They did embrace again, the Fellow grateful to retire to an evening of headboard-damaging wholesomness. The Lady smiled at him, smirking ever so slightly. "And don't look now, but I think there's a bit of a puddle over there."
With horror and dread, the Fellow turned against the Lady's wishes, seeing that the holy wood, beautiful enough to eat off of, was again befouled. A heavy breath, the last he wanted to have, escaped him as his eyes fell upon the culprit. Untouched, unscathed, the Despoiler sat as he always did, lolling his tongue and rolling his eyes with horrible glee. Turning on his back, the Despoiler beckoned as always, ravenous for the comforts of tummy-rubs.
There would always be a firmament, a place to put one's bare feet, a place from which to know the unchanging presence and eternal comfort of its support. So it was the Despoiler, and for a time, for all time, there would be.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Keener
She has a straight-razor tattooed on her forearm, the first thing you notice when she dismounts the bike, despite her sweating, heaving form that would collapse had she not just undone the courier bag strapped around her. A regular at the café, she signals for her regular café only to glare with shark's eyes at the embryo of a barista who at first uncomprehendingly but now with more substantial intimidation buckling his knees, stares helplessly back. Stares at the straight razor tattoo.
The razor itself is open and obtuse, a small but visible rose carved into the handle. Sweat drips and canalizes from the slightest of furrows down its blade as she wipes a sticky black lock from her forehead.
The barista consults with more senior staff who roll their eyes at him and his little squeaks about the bike being in the store, about a patron dampening the upholstery with a certain unhygienic magnitude. Subtlety, while not his strong suit or a factor in the volume of his voice, fails to distract her from the contents of her side-pocket, an obscure tome, there mere cover of which gives less a poverty of fancy so much as a bittersweet richness of fact. It bleeds post-it notes, and she prepares another pad, ripping each into smaller segments arranged along the fingers of the hand that does not turn the book. Unnoticed, she's already laid out exact change on the table, no tip. China rattles as the midnight-black Java is put down beside her, with certain apologies muttered by a barista as inaudibly as his pride would want.
Look at her, rail-thin with exertion, ponytail out of the mess of the rest, a ring around her eyebrow that clinks whenever she pushes up her glasses. Neat nails trimmed to their beds by idle picking, that is by tooth or claw. She rubs her shark's eyes in the pre-caffeine haze, again flashing an ebony straight-razor. Her lips, the type that pour out of a jutting lower jaw, mutter the silent litany of text, pausing only to be flicked at by a page-herding thumb. Half-lidded eyes are wholly on the text, and the rest of her works at an automatic pace.
Stare, be entranced, lick your lips with the sudden burst as she sweats over you from equally occupying tasks, anxious as much for exertion as to keep pace and delay the inevitable. Her head thrown back, her shoulders shuddering. Her stirring in the morning in a bathrobe, her fingers tracing frost in a winter's pane. Her growing old to your left, as you grow old to her right, side by side on a patio nowhere in particular. Nobody else looks that way, nobody ever will. There is a fond little moment, a synchrony, your uniqueness, her uniqueness, coming together in a crescendo of thought and would-be memories. A little ball of yarn for you to bat around your belfry as your feet too work at an automatic pace to bring you home again smelling of coffee.
Years later, you cut yourself shaving, the thin dribble of blood demanding attention and treatment. But you're useless for at least a few moments, cut apart by a straight-razor girl in a café.
The razor itself is open and obtuse, a small but visible rose carved into the handle. Sweat drips and canalizes from the slightest of furrows down its blade as she wipes a sticky black lock from her forehead.
The barista consults with more senior staff who roll their eyes at him and his little squeaks about the bike being in the store, about a patron dampening the upholstery with a certain unhygienic magnitude. Subtlety, while not his strong suit or a factor in the volume of his voice, fails to distract her from the contents of her side-pocket, an obscure tome, there mere cover of which gives less a poverty of fancy so much as a bittersweet richness of fact. It bleeds post-it notes, and she prepares another pad, ripping each into smaller segments arranged along the fingers of the hand that does not turn the book. Unnoticed, she's already laid out exact change on the table, no tip. China rattles as the midnight-black Java is put down beside her, with certain apologies muttered by a barista as inaudibly as his pride would want.
Look at her, rail-thin with exertion, ponytail out of the mess of the rest, a ring around her eyebrow that clinks whenever she pushes up her glasses. Neat nails trimmed to their beds by idle picking, that is by tooth or claw. She rubs her shark's eyes in the pre-caffeine haze, again flashing an ebony straight-razor. Her lips, the type that pour out of a jutting lower jaw, mutter the silent litany of text, pausing only to be flicked at by a page-herding thumb. Half-lidded eyes are wholly on the text, and the rest of her works at an automatic pace.
Stare, be entranced, lick your lips with the sudden burst as she sweats over you from equally occupying tasks, anxious as much for exertion as to keep pace and delay the inevitable. Her head thrown back, her shoulders shuddering. Her stirring in the morning in a bathrobe, her fingers tracing frost in a winter's pane. Her growing old to your left, as you grow old to her right, side by side on a patio nowhere in particular. Nobody else looks that way, nobody ever will. There is a fond little moment, a synchrony, your uniqueness, her uniqueness, coming together in a crescendo of thought and would-be memories. A little ball of yarn for you to bat around your belfry as your feet too work at an automatic pace to bring you home again smelling of coffee.
Years later, you cut yourself shaving, the thin dribble of blood demanding attention and treatment. But you're useless for at least a few moments, cut apart by a straight-razor girl in a café.
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