A man and Woman; to Greece; love making

His right hamstring extends farther down than the left as he strains to find the right angles and positions in downward dog pose.
She steals a glance, stifles a smile at his visible effort to make his body conform to an unfamiliar position. Her smile is not malicious; she loves him for working so hard on something that comes so easily to her.
He will smile that same smile, in church, his voice clear and bright ,while she struggles trying to out-sing the group of blue-haired ladies who always seem to have arrived just before them. They are side by side, her heels rest easily on the floor behind her, his clear a few inches.

On the way home, later that night, they speak quietly. Excited at his increasing flexibility, they also speak of their upcoming trip to Greece, planned for later in the summer. They speak of having children.
What a good father he will make, she says, just as he is thinking the same thing about her. What a perfect mother she will make, he says. The couple talks about how cute their babies will look, but do not discuss when exactly they plan to begin having any.
At home, in the dark warmth of post-coital bliss, he cups her face in his hands, calls her by one of his many pet names he has for her, and is content.
The woman listens to her husband’s breathing, and, hearing it become regular and deep, knows he is asleep. Getting out of bed quietly, she reaches to turn on a small lamp, but a sudden break in the clouds lets in enough light from the full moon for her to see. She turns to the side, looking at her naked body in the mirror, running her hands over the soft skin of her stomach, wishing for something to be growing inside. She stands there, knowing she should go back to asleep, and, after admiring her slender physique one last time, does.

The Aegean sea glistens in the distance, just beyond the dry scrub covering the top of the small hill they have just climbed. She can see that his feet are dusty from the climb, and can feel the powdery soil covering her own. They stand there, holding each other, looking down at the twisting streets of the small town, at the winding alleys and small outdoor cafes that they have grown to love over the past week, and are at peace. There is no need for words, for fear that they could shatter the perfection of Them at that moment in time.

Later that evening, in the clear light of the full moon, after a dinner of fresh seafood, bread dunked in olive-oil and garlic, and fresh greens, they make love three times. Neither of the two notice how often they make love, up until the moment when the rising sun blinds them at the moment of orgasm.
The sun is high when they awake, and they are famished. They are also late for their flight, and just barely reach the gate, carrying one last packet of food from an ancient street vendor named Ander.

The woman awakes, nauseous again. After the second day of vomiting, she makes an appointment with the doctor for the next day.

“Please have a seat,” the doctor says in a soothing tone. Panic shoots up her spine, the hair standing out on her neck and arms. “We have done some tests, and discovered the reason for your nausea these past few days.”
“Well, what is it,” the woman asks, ”can you give me something to make it go away?’
“It’s not that kind of sickness,” he says. ”Please, it’s nothing bad, stay seated. Mary, you’re pregnant.”

Hassan, late to work

Leaping over the short stone wall, I quickly duck behind the tall hedgerow that borders the old woman’s garden, through which I just took the shortcut. Without the short-cut, I either have to go up, or down, a short set of stairs, and I’d much rather hop a wall under danger of being lambasted by some ancient old biddy than have to do that.
I am fourteen, perhaps too short for my age, but that runs in the family. My parents came here from Iraq, leaving just after Saddam took power, in ‘79, to come to this country. I have never even been there, never set foot on Persian soil, and am as American as they come. Sure, some kids give me shit about being from Iraq, because it’s been in the news more, call me Saddam at school, but I have enough other kids to hang out with, as well as a minor reputation, that no one really does much about it.
One time I got into it with Jimmy Nelson after school, when he and two other kids jumped me just as I about to leave the park (another shortcut), calling me diaper-head and camel jockey. They each got in a few punches, before I got really scared and started swinging. One of them crawled the four blocks to his house, told his Mom he fell off of a friend’s bike. Since then, I really haven’t had too much trouble, even with most high school kids.
But back to the current situation. I am late. I know my Dad’s going to be pissed. He bought the franchise to a Kinko’s, back when they first got here, with money his mother gave to him and my mom. I help out the tech guys, who really aren’t that good with the machines. Mostly it’s me showing them how to set up new networks, debugging the copiers. I reload paper, work the registers if its really busy, stuff like that, most days after I finish my schoolwork.
My grandmother refused to move when my mom and dad did, said she couldn’t leave the village she had known all her life, but gave them as much money as she could. It turned out to be enough for the franchise, and to cover expenses while they were getting set up. I came around a good time after that, the third of four kids, my younger sister now walking with me to school in the mornings.
Officially two minutes late. The calendar reminds me it’s a Wednesday, and Wednesdays are always busy. And my birthday is coming up. I don’t mind birthdays, except for my Aunt Lila, who smells like her cats and qata'if, a type of fritter. But I just wish people would just give me money, so I can buy a cellphone, keep in touch with my friends, take Samantha Higgins out to the movies, for some heavy petting. Dark brown hair, slightly upturned nose, swim team, mostly a complete bitch. Perfect.

“Hassan! You are late. Why can you not be anywhere on time? I thought your mother and I raised you better than this.” He can be very quiet when he needs to. I am clumsy to have let him sneak up on me in my daydreaming. I know he’s angry, not just being a dick because he can, because he’s talking in Arabic, normally only for home use. He’s probably stressed out because of the large number of customers I see, looking up for the first time around the room.

cubeLand vexations

My aspiring beard itches occasionally. It is a welcome “fuck you”, I think, to the corporate acceptability standards. I have reached the point, once again, at which I can truly say I am no longer vested in the company.
I have reached and passed the point of caring, of truly giving a shit about my job. I continue to perform as professionally as I have in the past, perhaps more so, but do so with the underlying resolve, the underlying knowledge that my time at the company is limited. A dozen emails sit in the inbox, two reminders from the calendar telling me to harass someone else about this or that project. Emails go back out, detailed inquiries flit away to different departments, but only following an accurate, brief file-check of the hardcopy.
I’m on top of it. Wait, what is the problem? Oh, send me the information and I’ll sort everything out for you. I know, I got it together. Come on, we’re Operations!
Can’t stand that guy. Not that he’s a bad person or anything, it’s just that I always feel like he’s talking down to me. Your basic schoolboy bitch: all growns up and ready to wield his meager superior status over me, convinced he is my equal or better because his fucking title is longer. But that is just me fluffing me. Maybe he’s the next Oppenheimer.
The walls run red with the blood of younglings. My vision hazes over, quickly, from the edges inward, redness encroaching in a narrowing corona, while little triangular adrenaline glands atop my kidneys start pumping.
Bloodlust rises in my gut, in the cupola of my imagination, and I grab the neck of the nearest gamer-nerd, one of about a half dozen motherfuckers who have been grabassing and discussing strategy about the game currently underway, right next to my cube. I have asked them to be quiet in the past, in more of less kind ways, but this is enough. My voice reaches a shout before the last and most oblivious gamer-nerd realizes he should shut the fuck up.
“Guys, I’m trying to work here. Do you think you could maybe,” I talk louder, straining to keep my voice calm, from letting the violence seep through, brought on my one of them turning to resume his redundant discussion, ”keep it down, I can’t concentrate on my work because of the volume. So, please, keep it down.”
What I wanted to say: ”Yo! G-Pat, Shut the fuck up. No, really, dude, you have both excruciatingly poor delivery and think that you’re one funny motherfucker, laughing at your own jokes about some intricate detail you discovered that can win you games. I’ve been grinding away for the past six hours on four different projects, and for four of those hours, you guys have been standing around switching between jerking off and backstabbing each other. Could you take your stupid fucking game and take it somewhere else?”
But NO! Not in corporate America, fucking cubeLand. Besides, that’s just what those fucker want. Someone to point their finger at and say “he’s not a team player, we were doing something work related!” Turn things right around on you they would. Great fear you have. Fear leads to the dark side of the force. Failed I have.

What really happens is that I force the disturbance to the back of my mind, burying it under layers of classical music streaming realtime from DR Klassisk (upper right hand corner NETRADIO), which brings the added bonus of news broadcasts entirely in Danish, a fascinating language that runs at times foreign, at times familiar to ye olde language processors in the prefrontal cortex, or wherever those wily bastards choose to populate.

Worse is a boss who wants to make everyone happy, and who reiterates the need for good interoffice relations, the need for our team to appear approachable to everyone. Of course I understand the necessity of this, and people don’t seem to hesitate approaching me with questions, the answers to which can be found in the forty-page manual I wrote to keep track of everything our team does throughout any given week. However I don’t see the need to tiptoe all the time.
Sometimes the easiest and most efficient solution is to tell someone what they are doing wrong and suggest alternative methods for doing it right. Fuck, everyone in the fucking company says hi to me, and I’ve spoken with all four hundred on at least one occasion, if only exchanging hellos. I am confidant to a dozen, pest to departments, befriender of the ninety eight pound weakling, chest thumping and chick scoping buddy to the jock.

I am everyone’s friend, and friend to none. He who can disappear, without a trace, by time you’ve turned around from ordering the next round. He who has no objection to sleeping with female coworkers.
Ah, self-inflated narcissism. It feels good to look at yourself from that angle, and is surprisingly addicting. I wonder if that’s why I see it every day, especially at home. :)

Man and Woman

Night creeps up on two figures, sitting, cradling each other, on a bluff overlooking the Pacific. Their bellies are full of homemade lasagne, served to them by an ancient Mexican woman from her own stove, and they are happy, as they sit there, saying nothing, savoring the moment together.
Far below them, waves pound a dark beach, erasing the traces of hundreds of feet, spreading seaweed in cryptic patterns.
The man looks down, at the last seagulls wheeling toward their evening berths. The woman, instead, stares upward, at the dancing and shifting patterns of the sunlight against cumulus clouds far overhead, growing dimmer as the earth completes its rotation.
He looks up from the beach, just as her gaze is lowering, and, for a moment, their heads are level, their eyes meet. Old friends they are, as well as lovers, but that only occasionally, and now mostly to strengthen the already strong bond they share.
The man loves her. He sees in her that same openness he saw when they first met, and loves her for never losing it. He knows she embraces every second of the day, every single occurrence with the eyes of an infant, not judging, not thinking about right or wrong, but simply taking things for what she sees them to be, and acting.
She loves him. He has always supported her, in small and large ways, even when she wanted to start working again, so soon after their third child. She cannot imagine life without him.

The sun has not yet risen when the woman starts from her sleep. Staring at the ceiling, she listens, trying to locate the noise she knows wasn’t from her dream, and rests her hand on her husband’s arm, comforted to know he is by her side. The man lies trembling on his side, shaking, his breath laboring in and out of his lungs.
Alarmed, the woman jumps out of bed, hands groping for the lights. His skin is ashen, his eyes close. His breathing seems to have stopped, and as she crouches next to him, offering quiet, comforting words, she hears one final breath escape.

She sits now, on the bed next to him, tears raining onto his face. A wail escapes her. Uncontrollably, panicked, she cries, the sudden void unbearably large, his sudden absence simply too much. Her mind spins, her feelings churning through disbelief, utter despair, joy, weightlessness, crushing agony.

She cannot bear to believe he is gone. Cannot fathom not having him at her side. Lying next to him, with a broken heart, she wills herself to live no longer.

BURFDAY

Thoughts strain to find each other as my body slowly kills the hangover. It kinda sucks hanging out alone on your birthday, but I live far enough away from my group of friends that I have but don’t talk to enough that it makes it hard to motivate, then there’s the issue with drinking and driving, definitely not a good thing.
Progress talking to the ladies is good too, getting better with the bullshitting, better feigning interest, keeping them talking, not being too negative. Plus I fucked up my phone last night, dropped it or something, screens are out, can’t see anything, but it still works as a phone. It sucks because I want to have the text messaging feature and can’t stand not having coverage here, should just switch to t-mobile. Or should switch to a siblings’s service, so that calls are free, at least to them.
I realize that certain things make me happy, like staying in contact with friends, but if I don’t stay on top of it, things deteriorate. Fuck. I’m not so worried about being a year older, not depressed about that, but kinda down on myself for not making better use of my time. I realize that I really don’t like it when I’m judged, or when I feel like I have to answer to someone when I’m talking to them. There is trying to help someone because you care and there is grilling someone about how they are progressing, then making fun of people when you don’t see them operating at motivational levels you believe you have achieved. But fuck that too, throw down next time it happens, push back, let them know you don’t appreciate it, that it changes the relationship.
Should have taken it a bit slower last night, wouldn’t feel this hung the fuck over, would have more enjoyed Episode III for the second time, no euphoria, except for the younglings part, and that sometimes scares people. Forcing myself to do this, to record my thoughts and impressions of a day past, a day spent on two wheels, fine sand, glued to a movie screen, and talking with strangers and friends. It all seems so important, every detail, and yet so trivial, like I’m ready to say fuck it to a free lunch just so I can see how it feels to do so, because I can. Lovely.

Honor

Honor. Honor is what has made great men the subject of tales since the dawn of human existence. It is the foundation of human society, the invisible, intangible bond that ties each one of us to the other. Some people call it love, some compassion, but I, full of piss and wind, prefer honor.
To paraphrase from Pirsig, honor is that fleeting notion, at the very point at which one makes a decision, indeed at every conscious point in life. The decision to act honorably is akin to the very iron atoms on the tip of an arrow that split the air in their passage; at point along their passage, they fulfil the exact purpose, without question, for which they were created. Similarly, the shaft and ferrous metal leading up to the atoms at the very tip represent the experiences and underlying person who you are, or think you are, while the very tip represents the fulcrum point that is every moment of life, every decision made.
Decisions are tricky to lock down. Is it my decision to breathe? Physiologically, my unconscious nervous system is programmed to breathe for me, and only through training can I learn to control it, to channel my breathing for energy or to negate stresses exerted on the body. My decision to have a few drinks tonight to ring in this twenty eighth year of my life is a decision I make consciously. It will hopefully not adversely affect those around me, and will ring in this semi-momentous occasion with a dampened bang of sorts, a loosening of the thoughts, the tongue and the cocker spaniel ( ;) to any ladies who may be reading, besides my sister). But my decision, each and every day up until a few months ago, NOT to write, not to be creative or express my emotions, NOT to become an active smith of lies (all tales and propositions are lies from one point of view), at least not on paper, now seems utterly absurd. Absurd in the sense that this release allows me to speak my mind, even if few people hear it, allows me to bury some hatchets, get the poison from the day out before it sets in.
I believe that far fewer poisons have been allowed to encroach on my person since I made the effort to seek the positive point of view, since I listened to myself giving commentary during a conversation, maintaining self awareness and actually thinking “How does this sound to other people.” I was very surprised to hear myself buddying up to people a lot, taking their point of view more often than offering my honest opinion or offering a rebuttal to their statement. Fluffing people like this certainly maintains a status quo of sorts, makes a lot of people like you because you take their side, but I would argue that it is not the honorable thing to do.

In my humble opinion, it is honorable to contradict, or voice an opposing view, at any point in time, regardless of the other members of a conversation, if you are convinced you are in the right. This is arguably one of the most difficult and tricky things to do, as it is very tempting to mistake other impulses, such a vanity or greed, for honor. Honor is all powerful, a person’s most treasured known trait, that neither torture nor hardship nor even death can take away.
It pervades our daily existence, from using turn signals to escorting spiders out of a crowded room, from sticking to your guns when three a-holes mistake your Soviet-era-style shirt for something racist, all the way to telling the one person outside of your family you love the most out of any of the dozens that have come before her that based on her decision to call off your relationship, and due to extraneous circumstances you cannot accept her back nor promise to wait.
Honor is nearly impossible to explain, as it is a quality someone possesses, not an item or title. It is so fragile that to grab after it is to lose it, but the grows out of a succession of seemingly minor choices made from an honorable frame of mind. Honor is quality. For more on Pirsig, click here. To the drinking posts. X

Lamentation and Description at work

A dinosaur chews its way through the neck of a wounded plant eater, lying utterly at the beast’s mercy. A lei, received a dozen months prior, hangs from a crook in the swivel-seat, rolling office chair. Hunter S. Thompson looks down from the wall, benevolent, ever-suspicious, my eyes track movement in the hallway between my cube and that adjacent, occupied by a man I would have died next to, had we been born in Sparta, twenty five hundred years before, a man whom I would entrust with my life, and who hopefully thinks the same of me. It is the single young woman, so transparent in her attempts to manipulate those around her.
I keep her at arms length, allowing my caution and attraction to show in equally small measure, but enough to keep her guessing. She has a luscious behind, seriously nice piece of tail, if she is trying to play everyone off against each other, the married ones in particular.
An apple seed sprouts, off to my right, in green artificial sponge I received from a dear friend and better sister, during tumultuous times, its once vibrant flowers faded, long since trashed. As I cannot tend a garden at home, might as well flex that verdant thumb at work.

I coil the rubber sting around four fingers, interlaced, its fluid filled ball on the business end dangling just below the hand. With a flick of the wrist, it flies out, the string unfurling, extending five feet horizontally to within an inch of the main slacker’s face. The move I practiced for a year, with heavier keys on a shorter string, whilst walking home, up Cortez hill, coming up empty handed again, form a night out in this doubtfully finest of cities, looking too hard for some prune tang. He is the main slacker, watching TV, at his desk, with his boss standing behind him, not caring in the least if he’s reprimanded.
Not my problem. I do have to look into getting a laptop, though, can’t stand the immobility of the desktop, don’t really value processor speed or graphics card.

A jar of peanut butter and a few slices of bread are stacked on the left, out of sight of all but the most persistent and invasive visitors to my fine cube, this outpost of mine in vast Cubeland. For I know that its borders do not end at the walls of this office, but extends far into every other stifling and soul-strangling arena in the corporate domain. I yearn to escape, to throw down these walls, to mount the heads of my adversaries on the walls, warning future generations of the fate of those who would cross my path. ENOUGH

All I speak of, it seems, is this place. Those confines, where I learned so much, honed my skills, sacrificed so much time, so many young years, drained out. It finds itself into my head, my dreams, I have friends there, but must maintain those outside as well, ENOUGH.

Sunday, Hung-the-f-over

What it boils down to, pretty much, is that you rep your shit. It really doesn’t matter if you’re right, or wrong, because who is the fucking judge of that? Who can honestly come up to you, and say that you’re wrong for doing or saying something, when they themselves have done or said something similar, or at least thought about it.
Sometimes, you gotta kick someone in the stomach, if he’s repping some SM singer guy nonstop ‘cause he’s drunk, and you’re tuning him out, but he’s starting to get upset because he’s crazy about this guy, and starting to get in people’s faces about it, and no one cares, really, except for him, about this singer guy. You laugh it off, ignore the fool, but the guy with the tats, and the scar going from his forehead to the base of his skull, he’s getting pissed, ‘cause the fool pushed him when he dissed the singer, so he goes and kicks the fool, about to throw down, fucking kill the little bitch, you saw the knife.
Sometimes, in that situation, you just back your boys and rep your set, ready to throw down on the fool, to beat him within an inch of his life. To save face, to show your boys that you can hang, no matter how weak or illogical that may sound, because, when you boil it down, when you take that last breath, do you want to know that you did good to people, that you bent over backwards so that no one got hurt, or that you threw down and stuck to your guns. Or that you beat the shit out of some guy, just out of principle. Not that it really happened, but it was damn fucking close. That fool almost went to the hospital.
But what I’m working over here is the underlying tendency, on my own part, to try to appease, to try to work with the other side, but that puts you in the middle, allied with neither party, prey to all. So, no matter what, pick your side and stick to it. Skin that smokewagon, and see what happens. No one likes a bitch, or a turncoat, even if it is diffused by the negligible importance of the issue at hand, fuck it. You feel so much better if you choose a route and see it through, if you have an opinion and don’t sell it out to another idea, if you can walk up to someone and they can tell that, while you’re not closed to other ideas, you’ll rep your shit, and maybe think about what they were saying, and change your mind, but for that moment, when your neck was on the line, you said “by no means will you convince me that my opinion is wrong, or that I should retract my previous comment. If you or someone else hurts or tries to hurt me because of it, bring the fucking pain.” Anyone who breaks your nose after that, will respect you for life, will be your friend, because he knows, no matter what happens, as long as your position is clear on a matter, you’ll rep it to shit and back.
Sometimes, you get so drunk with your friends, and you made the fucking conscious decision to do so, that you pass up the blond trying to get in your pants, which would have been fruitless anyway, what with you being so drunk and limpdick that her orgasm would have been assured, but never yours. Still, it’s fucking unusual to tell a girl,”listen I’m here with my friends so I’m going to turn around and walk away and maybe I’ll see you later.” She ate it up, and was mine for the rest of the night. At least till I got too drunk to stand on my own. Olde Bouyah.

Rise and Fall of Potential Romantic Entanglement

The crowd parts, my heart is calm, the cool night air surrounds me, enveloping me like a shroud, as I flit through the moderate after-work crowd. Although there is a group of people from my work inside, sitting around a few tables they pushed together, I can’t stand it inside for longer than five minutes, the closeness of the walls and low, hacienda ceiling too much after a day in cubeland, after the discipline and forced efficiency with which I approach my daily tasks.
Stepping outside, I instinctively begin the process of thinking about having a cigarette, but let it die in its baby ... holy fucking shit. Dear God, I say aloud, seeing her tense, just a little bit, barely inside the place, walking past the palms, the light glancing off her skin, the modest top, jeans from a casual Friday, and hope to dearest that she’s averting her gaze because of me.
She didn’t even see me, at least I don’t think so, maybe just walking in, from twenty yards, but certainly not close enough to know that I’m a scumbag teabaggin mother- hold on, no more self-flagellation, even verbal. Not cool. Ok. Game fucking on, game on. A friend exits the place, oblivious to my presence, as he’s on his cellphone, most likely with his lawyer, settling his divorce at six on a Friday? Dude, what the fuck? Good, keep your mind off of her, but don’t forget about her, for now, always keep her just inside your peripheral, even through the palm-fronds, seeing her with her back to you, with three work of normal friends, by far the prettiest of the group. Some initial glances from that table, but something about the way they sat and turned at your arrival screamed boyfriend, married and not wearing it, or just plain voracious.
Not a bad thing, for sure, but not really what you want to get into right now. Now this new one, hotter than most chicks you’ve seen in the past week, and pure, you know, fucking angelfood cake all the way up those thighs. Don’t. Don’t fantasize, not about the poontang, not about the pot o’ gold, that’ll put the rapist glint in your eye. Remain neutral, neutral to her powers, to her charms, to the seamless top, her skin making a smoothe transition from uncovered to under the shirt, no rolls or forced flesh, oh shit. Staring, now, and one of her mates just glanced over. Good and bad, depending on her mood, if her friends think you’re hot, wether one of your friends comes out any time within the next thirty seconds, forcing you into action preemptively. Good, another one looked, turning back to whisper something to the table, she tenses again, just a bit.
That guy is back up on karaoke, the old one in the tight leather pants, singing his heart out, hamming it up to a level embarrassing to everyone within a sixty foot radius can almost feel, the sitting multitude unable to simply tune him out or go inside, pretending to take a piss, trying to get out of the blast radius of this wrinkled ladies' man.
Somehow, he’s trying too hard. But fuck it, at least he’s up there.
There, a half-turn of the head, she bringing you into her peripheral, you noticing it out of yours, pretending to be interested in what your friend is saying, how he’s gonna get hosed on his breakup, who’s gonna get what, et fucking cetera. You’re listening, and will remember, and are actually paying attention, because it’s good if you’re talking to someone, immediate good karma, you’re approachable, and you have a reason to turn your back to her. There. Fight the urge to run inside, to take yourself out of her mind completely. Let her doubt whether you were looking at her, or if you were really just watching the older woman give Cheryl Crow's latest her all, the glow of her early twenties, just for an instant, shining through the sun-wrought wrinkles of her fourth decade.
Eyes, someone’s eyes on your back. Confirmed, your buddy just looked, the angle indicating right at them. “So let’s not talk about that mess any more,” he says. “Maybe those four could cheer us up!” Shit, he’s talking about the hottie and her friends. May have to go in early, stall him until you can find the right moment. Ah fuck it. Fast and loose, right. Reference the entertainment, ask what song they think you should sing, stand off to her right, so she’s forced to look up at you, will make you appear bigger, powerful, even for a split second.
Enter stage right. “It looks like you four fine young ladies would be an excellent judge on this subject, so I’m just gonna go ahead and ask.” First line, off without a glitch, they look interested, waiting for you to continue. “My friend and I here,” indicating with a slight of hand, ”aren’t quite sure if we should sing a duette, which could appear a bit strange, especially if I sing the female part,” they laugh, fucking splendid, “or if we should just go up there solo, each on his own.” She still hasn’t looked at me, good and bad sign. Chaos will determine, if this next move goes right. Her friend, in front of me, begins to speak, just as the other two turn their attention to my wingman, forcing her to either completely ignore me, or, no, she shifts, and gives me a look, just to let me know that she’s giving me a look. I like this girl already. And we are in.

The last of my work companions has left, the regular crowd has begun to arrive, older hopefuls filling the vacancies, having a good time, but seeming to be doing so out of some drive to do so, just under the surface aware of the slight awkwardness of the situation, and I’m paying too much attention to the older people coming in.
Maybe you could say I’m more of one to strike hard and fade away, into the night. I’m not so great on the long haul, and this girl likes me, enjoys talking to me, and seems genuinely interested in what I have to say. Her larger friend is slowdancing to some Eighties ballad that guy is singing, with my friend, and I feel the urge to cut loose, to jump on the bike, burn ninety down the freeway. Excuse yourself to go to the bathroom, light touching of the hand, good. A positive tilting of three girls’ heads inward, conferring, you’d like to think, about you. Megalomaniac. You lost your momentum, and are getting tired of talking to her friends, whom you have embroiled in conversation, running wing for yourself, all the while giving her just a little bit more attention, keeping her friends, who aren’t bad looking, on the edges of their seat. Perhaps that is why she is acting a bit bored, you’re giving too much. Maybe she’s just really a bitch, but no, that’s not it. You can’t treat her with more respect, just because she’s hotter than her friends, that won’t do. Turn it, slightly, start focusing, there, a light touch on her friend’s leg, shift peripheral so she’s not even in it.

Now it’s time to go. You’re still in work clothes, and have gathered your various things from their various hiding places, and really can’t stand talking to her friends, anymore.
“Are you leaving us,” you hear her ask, snuck up behind you like a thief, to rob you of an anonymous escape. “Sometimes, it’s best to leave when it is sweetest, and speaking with you has been my utmost pleasure.” Laying it on a bit thick, eh, old boy? She buys it though. “If you have to leave, I wanted to at least say goodbye. My friends have had a lot of fun tonight.” “And you haven’t”, I ask, teasing her like I should have been the whole night “perhaps we could meet, at some later time, and make sure your and my friends aren’t the only people we can have a good time around.” Too complicated, maybe. You’re not even sure if that made sense, sadness kicking in, showing in your eyes. You are tired. Her look says that she’s not quite sure if you mean straight-up fucking, or dinner, or something else. “... Could I have your number? So I can call you, to get together, you know, what we were just talking about.” God, man, you’re fumbling for words so badly, she can’t NOT think you’re cute. “Sure,” she says, “ and the pen springs to your hand, then back to your pocket, with a scrap of paper that shows her name, a number, and nothing else. You smile, a tired smile, looking into her eyes and, as you turn to go, realize that the opportunity to kiss her had come, and gone.

A dozen scraps settle in an empty wastebin as an engine coughs to life, a mind numbs, gods of travel receive their praise, and you depart.

FUCKING CUBELAND

The mind recoils in terror.
Emotion runs wild, attention unable to stay its course, this level of awareness, perhaps due to the fact that I am reading an account of one of the greatest generals ever born. He led his Macedonian brethren to the fringes of India, from the Hellespont, and seemingly combined all aspects of areté, leadership and wisdom into such a short span of life. I look back, comparing myself to this masterful king, and feel so very small, insignificant with my extra forty pounds, my desk job, the feeble passions that arise, too often foundering at the walls of insecurity, at the broad sea of doubt. but doubt is only verified in its existence if you verify that it exists.
I find it incredibly hard to create if I doubt myself every step of the way. Shit. I am my most harsh critic, looking at my words, second guessing every bit of sentence, the structure of the whole string of words, and it comes up wanting. Why? These past few days, even tonight, I was full of happiness, neutrality, conversing with an old friend, catching up on each other’s lives, but now I am back, back to that level. Can my feeling of self-worth depend on the dripping faucet of self-doubt I felt when trying to add to the story, when trying to flesh out the background of the antagonist, the necessity driven woman, seeking salvation, even at the cost of others? God, I read these words, I can feel the drive draining out even now, standing in the book store, intimidated by the sheer volume of work, by the knowledge that my contribution is so small, that every attempt I make to come up with a story with my own ideas, is frustrated by the ideas, by the visions of others whose stories I have read. I know that I can write, I know that the story is sitting there, but is forcing its way out through a small opening, like a huge funnel stretching up into my imagination, and every thought I have sits at the top, hoping to find its way out through the nozzle.
Do I revile sitting in front of a monitor, as it is what I do for ten hours a day, receiving emails, checking files, requesting art approvals, coordinating rubberized mat purchases, having to tell some girl who’s been lending money out to people because our company decided not to pay people this month, even though the owner just bought a 35 million dollar apartment in NYC, checking on wire transfers, explaining templates and naming conventions to outside parties, crossreferencing manufacturer and retailer websites, calling out discrepancies in shipping requests, managing third party expectations, updating procedural manuals, while most others I see have the time to kick the fuck back and play card games for four hours a day.
Fuck yeah I’m bitching right now, because I’m fucking tired and want to write, but can’t stand to sit in front of a monitor any more, and can’t seem to find the courage to just quit, lay it all on the line, fuck the transitional period, just fucking quit and have to write to live, have to earn my fucking keep with the blisters forming on my fingers as they glide across the keyboard. They are fucking flying now, you know why? Because this shit is ingrained, because I send three dozen emails a day, mostly while doing something else simultaneously and get paid half of what the average fucking bloke needs to be able to live in this city, because it’s my fucking choice to get up every morning and burn my ass through traffic to glue it to a desk for ten hours so that everything runs smoothly.
So the raise I’m supposed to get will barely fucking cover inflation, but god fucking forbid it the company tries to bump someone’s pay by more than six percent, red flags all over HR, upper management raising eyebrows, who the fuck is this guy that he needs to get this much of a raise anyway? Oh that fucker. The one who’s highly visible, seems on the point of boiling, but channels it into multitasking his way into a corner, then getting himself and five other people where they need to be to see eye to eye on whatever project they are working on. Oh, but I did start at ten bucks an hour, driving a fifteen year old car that I didn’t take enough care of to make it last, and here I fucking am bitching and moaning about how much some guy isn’t paying me, knowing full well that if I don’t abort fucking mission soon that I’ll look up, age forty, wondering where my chances went, discounting my dreams to write fucking stories on a boat off of San Luca or something.
Who the fuck has time to read books anyway? Who the fuck, from mine and subsequent generations, who is fairly fucking hep and has some form of social life, sits down with a book and reads the fucker from cover to cover. I myself start wavering at about page thirty, start getting fidgety, looking to see if there’s something else to do. SO WRITE FUCKING THIRT PAGE BOOKS, SELL THEM TO FUCKING KIDS ON CAMPUS WHO WANT A QUICK STORY, FUN AND EXCITING, OR SADDER THAN ALL HELL, THAT WILL LEAVE THEM WISHING THEY HAD ANOTHER. Or just broadcast your idea on an anonymous webpage, hoping that someone will think “hey that’s a fucking good idea” and make a mint.

make the mint yourself, goddammit.
Make it. You got straight A’s in grad school while not even enrolled, can write like you breathe have endless imaginative qualities, and the discipline and drive to do it.

Lay it all down. Fuck cubeland. Write about how much it sucks, about the office romances about the simmering almost-fucking that accompanies two opposing bodies in the brief encounter while passing the printer. It’s fucking hard, but it’s hard that is fun. Why waste your late twenties slaving for the Man. Fuck that. You want to be forty with a bad back from sitting on shitty chairs all day finally in some management position? I don’t think so. I don’t think the holy fire burns for that young man. I think that the passion is sapped by the mindless drudgery of cubeland. And so the fuck what if you take snippets of pieces of others’ work and bind them together into a story. Do you think Shakespeare came up with all his shit on his own? No but he had genius, and genius lurks, at the edges of the mind, in cohorts with his good friend insanity.

FIN ...X

Release, story resumes, with omissions

The power, the finality of words, never ceases to amaze. Running along, punching my way through powdery sand to escape the encroaching waves, Poseidon churning the sea just off to my left, I say it aloud, in the dimming light of another sunny day in California, to the glistening seaweed, bunched up, a welcome hazard on an otherwise fairly monotonous run.
I do not yell, as the notion, long known to me, hidden beneath a veil of self-doubt and pity, finds its way out with a whimper. “Let her go”, I say, meaning initially the hottie jogging in the other direction, instantly applying it to her. I realize that I should just let her go, let the notion of having her again as a girlfriend, the urge to wait for her, shunning new potentials, burying myself in doubt, the desire to separate myself from the reality of singledom, live in a fog of deception and a poorly-focused mental picture of who I think I know her to be, whom she very well no longer may be, all these things I find myself letting go.
One by one, these weights fall from my heart. When I arrive home, it is as if I had jogged around the block, left knee tingling a bit but still a solid mile of asphalt running without any significant pain or discomfort. Self-diagnosis, given a fairly good understanding of the self, one’s pain tolerances and the minute communications the body provides us with that hold the clues to many if not most physio- and psychological problems.
I now find myself more lost than before, with more weights on my heart, perhaps supplanted from the realities of financially-struggling bachelorhood into my fogged lense of heart-broken existence. Perhaps I’m just full of shit, and have no idea what the hell is going on, but at least the false, detrimental hope for a mending of wounds and realignment of our two selves has been given up for dead, one month now after our parting of ways, the forced schism of our love.

Ah fuck it, I’ll do the fight for free.

Burning sunlight awakens him into the pain of hangover, faint dreams extolling the alcoholic blunderings of a dimly remembered month. Sitting up abruptly in bed, he realizes that this is not his house. Fuck, he thinks, look around. OK, there’s a female passed out on the couch, seems like she moved there hastily during the night.
The clock reads 6:18 am, early enough that the other partygoers will most likely not see him leave, ducking out the back entrance he reconnoitered on one of the few semi-sober moments of the past week. He realizes that he had done so for this exact moment, this bright morning, alcohol still coursing through his veins, still legally drunk, but clear of mind, lucid from the hour of drunk sleep he collapsed into. He is looking to exit through the kitchen on his way out, and therefore passes through the drawing room, where he sees blond hair spilling up over the arms of a somewhat soiled loveseat, attached to the body of a girl he is convinced he slept with at least once in the past week.
Name, name, ah fuck it. There are more important things to do, he says to himself, now that this time has passed, now that he can escape in mystery. They may think he wandered off in the night, and fell off a cliff, into the dark ocean far below, but then again, he would have been too drunk at any point during the past seven days to even be able to leave the house, let alone scout a way around the fence, short in length but considerable in height, that had been erected thrown up around whichever gated community this was.
The ocean was a nice reference point, with his face pointed squarely in the opposite direction, he eventually finds his way to the guard house, and somehow convinces the gentlemen there that he is merely a good, tax-paying citizen out for a stroll, and does not need an armed escort to the edge of the property.
“Not an escort you say?” They want him to leave very badly, as he is obviously drunk, and standing just slightly to the side, as if very weak. “Well hows about you open the gate, and I can see myself out.”
Their automatic weapons trace him as he heads for the cross street.
While never a captive of his previous hosts, his escape of sorts from the party that never ends will raise some eyebrows, will burn some bridges with people of That social mode, not that he cared much for Their ideas anyway. Too much intrigue, forced to sleep with just the right older women to even get invited to the Fortnights, as they call them, two solid weeks of any and every designer and pedestrian drug you can think of, including alcohol and fine hashish.
Planes, planes overhead, hot damn. Must be near the airport, he thinks, and where there are planes, there are car rental agencies, perhaps some that even still take cash. He’ll of course have to present some kind of proof of credit, just in case he manages to completely fuck up the car. But who ever plans to do that? It sometimes just happens. He calls a cab, and two minutes later is cruising along at two hundred kilometers in a bee line for what was once called, John Wayne International., now ubiquitously, even officially, known as JayDub. The compartment of the cab is large enough for two, can produce more seats if necessary, and has as decent cargo space, should it be needed. He tries talking to the computer driving them along, but only gets single word answers in reply, one “I don’t know, sir”, before calling it quits and checks his pockets. He loves to check his pockets, especially while working on a walking hangover.

Johanna steps out of the climate controlled maze she has spent the last four days traversing, the delay due mostly to quarantine drops, mandatory for travelers from the newly re-emerging Baltic region, breaths deep the air, traces of hibiscus and smog competing for attention, the sweet air of home. A cab comes screeching to a halt a hundred yards away, and she checks her timestamp:
7:10 am.
Not many travelers at JayDub, normally, this early on a Tuesday, but she is excited at the prospect of getting home as quickly as possible, fully certain she will find her son asleep in his bed, far from outside of the reach of a woman who up until six months before (she had done some research during her time in quarantine) had been chained to the ceiling of her cell for five hours a day under the her countries’ previous ruler’s of idea social and cultural realignment, which basically boiled down to torture, humiliation, rape, or at least according to what few eyewitnesses made it over the two story fences, past the robot sentries, and was not directly a puppet for the regime. You could tell those, she knew from experience, as they generally tried to jolly things up a bit with stories of a worker’s paradise, where everyone had a job, a house, and a vote.
Most of them broke after the mites, cleverly crafted and hidden directly on certain dopamine receptors, had been removed. Without the tiny machines tricking them into associating their memories of their homeland with happiness, and they saw things through the filter of critical thinking, shock hit like a ton of horseshit. Some went completely insane, some shrugged it off, some begged to have the implants reinserted.
Somewhat flushed from her short run to the cab, she sees that the person has still not exited, and seems to be embroiled in an argument of sorts with the onboard computer.
Something seems familiar about the man, and, as she rotates around the vehicle to get a better view, her heart flutters, palms go dry, then just lightly misted.
This is he, that wonderful, unapproachable ladies-man she had hated and loved at once in her freshman year of college, now almost fifteen years hence. With the new regenative techniques, he didn’t look much older, in fact wouldn’t look much older for another two decades, but that was beside the point. Perhaps he had a point of contact with their old professor, perhaps he could help her track down the one man, who, should her son’s possible captor be telling the truth, possessed the knowledge to cure her antagonist, get her son back.

"Hey, wait a minute, I know you." She nearly jumps out of her skin at the voice, suddenly so close behind her. She had been so wrapped up in thought that she hadn't realized the cab is gone, leaving her alone, on an otherwise deserted pedestrian platform, with this man she adored from afar half a life time ago. "No really, I'm convinced I've seen you before, somewhere. You are, in fact, the finest, most pure and honestly attractive woman I've seen in quite some time!"

Whoa, tiger, he thinks to himself, don't lay on the charm too thick now, she might just fall for it. Damn this hangover. His internal censor must be swimming in a vat of Jack Daniels, somewhere past the medulla oblongata. Fuck it, what’s done is done, he thinks. “I’m Demetrius Oh, and don’t ask me to show you my Oh face, that’s just plain embarrassing.”

Demetrius, of course! How could she have forgotten? He seems a bit drunk, at least he smells that way, she thinks to herself, and it sounds like he’s been talking to mindless, drug addled models for a little too long; he’s barely making any sense, and is making some pretty outlandish suppositions.
Oh well, at least he doesn’t appear to be violent.

Upset and Aimless, Rob Roy

My fist smashes into the metal storage compartment at the same moment I say “Fuck”. I mean it, too. Two deadlines both due simultaneously, a simple task undone by another busy man, and a higher up waiting, on hold, for an answer. The hand strikes true, ring and middle finger square, solid smack against the metal, perhaps even denting it.
The pressure had become too great, I had let the bastards get to me, had let the Fear seep in through the edges of perception, twice in as many working says the rage blinded my vision, blood rage boiling just below the surface, contained, sent back to its proper quarter. What doth plague mine heart so? Is it some underlying tractor beam drawing me back to her, some reasoning refusing to let the notion of getting her back go from my mind?
Am I torturing myself, or am I simply going through the stages of withdrawal, as with all others, letting my mud resettle, allowing my mind to become clear again, as I was with her in the beginning, before I began to sense her underlying feelings of uneasiness, and began to adapt, began to slowly give up more of myself to try to appease her, effectively driving her farther away.
And yet they persist, periods of intense joy, of lucidity beyond compare, when all things spread out around me in a web, almost tangible, near maddening in complexity, the imagination stretching to its farthest limits.
I force myself to run, even while almost asleep at work, I realize due to lack of oxygen, or because of the fact that I’m sitting in a fucking cube, without a view of the outside, or the ability or time to step outside, go sit on the side of the hill and watch the workers tearing apart the once-lovely valley, opening it up for development, a new road that will cut commute times by 70 percent, that will bring noise and smog, and sprawl to this parcel of land, hewn over hundreds of thousands of years, millions.
But who the fuck cares, in the face of progress? I don’t, at least not enough to take action, to join some local committee to protect those vanishing areas of San Diego yet untouched by human intrusion.
Enough, I cannot concentrate with Rob Roy playing in the background.
Movie past, let us commence.
Small things infuriate me. My boss, coming to speak with the two of us on the team, aware of the fact that I am upset, that I am frustrated on account of my workload. He leans over me, clapping my shoulder, saying, “if your raise paperwork comes through, and it’s lower than expected, I will weep with you.”
On the tip of my tongue, foremost in my mind, I am thinking “you’ll be weeping by yourself, if it comes through too low, because, as I’ve already told you, if my contribution is not appreciated at this company, I will take it elsewhere.” Oh but would I have said it, out loud, in front of the few others near enough to hear. Weariness and the training received for to maintain our team’s appearance as always-approachable, to-anything-capable individuals, keep my tongue at bay.
Motivation. It all comes down to that. It all comes down to having a gun at your head, creditors calling, to force you to make shit happen. I sense the approach of an event horizon, of a drastic reappraisal of the whole situation. I am deathly afraid of making it on my own, slave to no man’s idea, cubemonkey for none other than myself, free to shape my days as I see fit. But, will you be able? I have a talent. I have the urge, the burning drive to craft words, lies and truth, channeling nuance through twenty six keys, proliferating snippets of subversive text, lies veiled in truth, the edge blurring. Reality becomes harder to define, images from books, games, movies, flashing before my eyes, superimposed over what I know as reality, reaching out to friends, family, for some anchor in the face of this slow, boiling tempest.
Bring the pain.

Sunday, without a mother

I strain to follow the lyrics, the score from a fine movie, with a fine Scottish actor, the Russian anthem, a feeling of elation, memories of seeing the film for the first time, then dozens more times, all blending into one, becoming part of the underlying self, the known, the calculable happiness.
Incalculable remain further mood swings, further developments regarding comfort levels in public places, this ...
Change of music. Hunt for Red October soundtrack too distracting, too much RAM occupied trying to track the variations in tone dynamics, trying to guess where the composer was going, what mood he wanted to convey. The mind storing the music for future reference, at the very least creating reference tabs to subfolders of memory, music spilling out randomly at times, filling the consciousness, hurting the ears, the power of it.
The mind, playing back music at appropriate times, unless consciously called upon to repeat certain music files. In cases such as these, the conscious memory of the music is limited to favorite portions, to stalls, or crescendos, to a heart-wrenching chorus, while the unconscious memory, if acknowledged but not coerced, will play back whole movements, lightly humming in the background, shuffling through its repertoire.
Oh but could I scream what I hear, but could I broadcast the majesty of just the right note, violins skipping lightly downward to a rising horn section, would it better convey my emotional wellbeing at that time? Perhaps we should piggyback a receiver onto the old audio nerve, link it to a harddisk, wait.
If I hear noise, music in my head, it is not being transmitted from the eardrum up the nerve to the brain, it is isolated within the brain, and my daimon is tricking me into thinking that the music is loud, that it is beautiful, that it is the right music for that situation. So any external device will not pick up signal transmissions from the audio nerve, but an electrode tiara should be able to track the increased activity in a certain isolated sector of the brain, or scattered throughout the brain, as we are finding out, with the mind linking sounds stored in one area to pictures stored somewhere completely different.
Regardless, if that could be tracked, and software written to recognize the music in question, then it might be possible for matching music to be played through portable loudspeakers, given that the appropriate music is retrievable from a wet-ware harddrive, or iPOD.
Beethoven’s First Symphony, written when he was, please hold ... thirty years old, in 1800, is far more familiar to mine ears, and therefore far less distracting.
This is trick learned in college, when forced, due to lack of proper planning, to spend the whole night before a test, without sleep, in the school library, in hopes of cramming enough info into my brain to allow me to pass the test the next day, or write a fifteen page paper from scratch. The last year, when that wonderful person passed away, Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony played a significant factor in maintaining my sanity (I do believe I can whistle/hum/direct the entire symphony, start to finish, beginning at any point during the piece). Classical music, no choral pieces or signing, occupies the part of my brain that needs constant stimulation, that is always checking the surroundings, hyperalert, allowing the cognitive functions to go into overdrive, sucking up data like a sponge, or pouring words out humbly onto a page.
So much confusion, this past week, with the coup-de-grace coming late Thursday, with mention being made of the name of my recent girlfriend. Immediately, the blood sang in my eyes, vision going fuzzy at the edges, like the machine in Iron Giant, catching myself a few seconds later, vision returning to normal, bezerker-rage checked, for now.
Where do these feelings come from, whence does this rage flow? Outwardly, it flowed through my voice, to the visible delight of the surrounded revelers, a hundred faces fixated, caught in a freezeframe between refrain and melody, gasping with joy at a wanton pelvic thrust, raw emotion overloading the amplifier, pressure mounting in the ocular cavities, a blind, explosive performance in front of scores of strangers, a score of friends.
It is so very easy to lash out, in my mind, at couples happy, content, envious of their carefree looks, of their inside smiles, remembering a happy moment, perhaps a particularly explosive orgasm, but immediately turning the lashings back in on myself, for entertaining such base, selfish thoughts.
It has been hard to write, since the retelling of that defining moment, so many years ago, when I laid bare my soul, willing to let it all go, to make that final decision to end things early. Perhaps I am reluctant to feel that pain again, perhaps it is one wall of fire I must transgress in order to do while clinging to non-ado.
Weary, for reasons unclear.
I have come to the realization today that she most likely made her decision during a moment of rational thinking, then called for a retraction once her emotions kicked in, once we met, for the handing over of items left behind, in the brilliant sunshine of a Californian spring, an innocent meeting casting doubt on the value of rational thought.
In retrospect, I believe I said NO because I couldn’t bear to lose her again.

FIN

Silence, for just a brief moment, as the vacuum trailing the semi sucks you in. Not too long, glance to the left, to see if the silver Mitsubishi has maintained his 75 miles, or if he has anticipated your move, you swinging wide, through the narrowing gap between the minivan in front of you following the semi far too closely, and the black Honda on your right.

It all comes down to whether or not Mitsubishi-boy stays cool, doesn’t grow a pain just to try to cut you off, with just barely enough room in front of him for you to squeeze by the bigrig, then jig right again, past the yellow xA, driver oblivious to your presence until you burn past, needle pushing 90, barely skimming the ground, or so it seems, over the bumpy confluence of two great rivers of steel, two main arteries feeding this desert region. Remember the sandwich effect, you think, people aren’t quite fully awake at this hour. That woman driving the xTerra just checked her lane, or so you suppose, seeing her car slide six inches to the left, ready to merge, without signaling, into your lane, just as you’re trying to squeeze past this flatbed. Her wheels on the quad-bumps, du-du-du-dum, again, and your vision goes tunnel, chest to the gastank, whole body coming up on its four contact points ever so slightly.

This time, 95 is just barely enough to get you alongside, so she sees you, her gray SUV swerving back just in time.

"There’s my hole gotta fly", you scream, the terror and adrenaline of the close call spooking you like a cat, riled up, pupils wide, ears slightly back, straining at reality, one paw coming up ever so slightly, then turning, running for its’ life, tail up, hind legs to the side.

BUY THE RED CAR. Stay on fucking program. Do not let you mind wander. Stay fucking focused, even if you’ve made it past the last pack of cars, and are chewing pavement toward the next.

Check your mirrors, both sides. Duck the left shoulder, see directly behind you. Check them again. Any sign of speed bursts, possible motorcycle cops. There, a flash of blue, crossing quadruple yellow lines, a lone man, risking license suspension by being alone in his car, in the carpool lane in the first place, and passing into it just to get around the yellow xA that seems to have caught up a bit. Good for him.

The blue BMW shoots past, pushing 95, and you’re tempted to shadow him, goad him on, just within his peripheral, every time he checks his mirrors, egging him on, supervigilant for planes, lurking police, radar guns. You want to run him like a scared mustang, cutting the gas the moment you glimpse static, letting him take the fall. 80 will do, we need to make it to work alive.

The speed control planes don’t ever check the interchange, you have noticed, too many damn cars, eight lanes converging, everyone speeding up to get in front of the foreign rush coming up on their right, left. There, three cars up, about two hundred yards, passing lane, looks like a coworker. Yessir, it’s her. Two lanes over, now, there’s the gap! Half a second later and you’re a carlength behind her, dodging right, along side her, a wink and off again, back to the outside lanes. The whole thing didn’t take four seconds, but you know she’ll give you shit about it, you know she’s worried now, knows you’re somewhere up ahead, you know she has something to do on her drive, other than listen to the baseball scores from the day before. Boy does the home team suck. TEAMSUCK.

75? Must have been thinking too much. Get you brain in gear, or you’re dead. Moments of repose, such as this, after the merge, can be extremely deadly. You’re sitting on an engine, with two wheels, holding on for dear life, the bike seemingly alive beneath you, so very responsive, so majestically crafted, you simple must have the Japanese girl at work translate a letter to the Suzuki Corporation, thanking them profusely for making such a fine machine, such a perfectly crafted vehicle.

That’s neither here nor there now. Sing, that’ll occupy the thinker’s time. Right, the battle hymn of the republic. I have seen a fiery anthem writ in burnish’d rows of steel … good. Remember to stick to the right up the hill, everyone slows down, to about 70, and you can burn past on the right, maintaining constant speed, even have a bit of fun dodging the poor saps merging, trying to build a head of steam up this long incline.

Back down, not much longer now, just through the valley, check the ruined vineyard on the right. Still no progress, a fine slope, just freshly planted after the hardest rains in decades hit, washing whole sections downhill, millions for sure gone, eroded away. That’s the risk of business though.

Flashback to running out of gas, when there was water in the front sparkplug. Sitting on the offramp, on the left-hand side, counting cars, timing it so you could hurtle across in front of oncoming traffic, running with the bike to the gas station, coaxing it back to life.

The highway loses a lane, causing motorists who aren’t paying attention severe annoyance, as they suddenly find themselves behind a dumptruck doing 40, people panicking, trying desperately to get over, those in our lane not budging. I budge, as my life is currently more valuable than my pride.

Through another gap, some room to breath again, all the exciting parts past now, just a challenge of finding the hotties, available McMilfersons, checking for wedding bands, quality of hairdo, cleanliness of car, earrings, pout, singing, blearyeyed sleepiness, distant coolness, checking to see if my guesses are correct, whether they look or not.

Ok, enough gawking, head forward, strike up another tune, random hummings, trying to make your helmet vibrate, now the license plates of the cars up ahead, watch them dance as your eyes vibrate to the frequency at which the light somehow tricks the mind, making the solid metal rectangle jiggle, slipslide. It’s easier with cathode ray monitors, once you find the frequency at which they spit out electrons, you see the dark bars moving slowly upscreen, like shitty TVs in shitty movies.

Another digression. Once again, fucker, there is NO time to relax, to daydream,. Not on a bike. Not when some people drive 50, with flat tires, no one signals for lane changes, and the cops have hawkeyes. Not then.

Just get to work on time, and in one peace.

…

Thank you Ganesha,Papa Legba, St. Christopher, all other gods of the traveler. Thank you for my safe arrival, once more.

Daemons Rise

Demons rise, in the soiled waters, kicked up by the penetrating self-evaluations of the last weeks, months, years. Demons that haunt the waking hours, the moments during which concentration lapse, seeping at the soul, begging for attention.

In my sleep, last week, I kneed a hole in the wall, near the head of the bed, a circular depression that left scratches on the flesh but otherwise did no discernable damage. I fear for myself, and those who may share my bed before the daemon is either confronted or reburied.

Reburial is not an option. Not now, not after it has reared its ugly head, and shown itself as the root of many problems, the root of the staunch reluctance to respect the self, to take responsibility for those around me affected by my actions, by my omissions, by my judgmental eye, probing for weaknesses in my fellows and myself, seeking for ways to hurt, for angles of attack, the hidden Achilles tendons we all wear so openly and concealed at once.

As quick as I am to lash out at those around me, I lash out at myself more quickly, without pulling the punches of veneer, without adhering to the unspoken protocols, the opaque rules that allow humans to interact.

With blinding certainty I currently see the need to simply speak one’s mind, bugger the consequences, meaning every damn fucking syllable spoken, and sticking your guns when the obviously controversial bumps up against the willfully restrained. Perhaps this view will fade, as all violent things do, and become mediocre, routine once more, but now, now it pervades the mind, popping up with near every thought, always there as a filter, sieving through possible arguments, comparing them against the original against the argument itself, consulting books, conversations, ideas, the core of the being, to see if the words that are about to be spoken truly reflect the opinions and views of he who speaks them.

Sometimes, the filter fails, and those utterances escape that make jaws drop, that send those more accountable running, scurrying off so as not to be seen with such a knave. But in those cases, sticking to your guns is more important than when trying to explain to the hottie in the checkout counter the underlying significance of the selection of items she is loading onto the belt, how every little thing clues you in to her current and potentially perpetual feelings of self-worth, how the arrangement and succession of items coming out of the basket gives you an idea of who the fuck she is, what she loves, what she cannot stand, what she cannot do without.

Then there’s the potentially homosexual checkout dude, mildly probing the waters, you pretty much letting him know what fucking dilly is, that XX is the only road for you. But in a nice way, like the guy in the PG 13 movie you really hope makes it.

But all these things you see, all these images flashing through your mind, watching her soft hands place item after item onto the rubber length, they are all false, they are all mind-fucks, self administered, telling you far more about what you WISH she were like, even perhaps that you WISH the buttonpuncher WERE in fact mildly probing your anus with a shampoo bottle. But that’s neither here nor there. And I’m pretty sure we’ve established heterosexuality, all systems go.

Pornstar found on Uranus.

The event in question occurred very shortly after it was discovered that I had been involved in a heinous crime, the forced acquisition of money or monies from an individual unwillingly or supposedly forcibly coerced into such. Pretty much armed robbery, and you did take the money, buying yourself a tastykakes fucking warm beverage to boot.

The police are notified, jailtime is issued and served, banishment from the school grounds on which it occurred, and the inexplicable sense that some higher authority, Feds, American fucking monkeyboys, were alerted to the occurrence, marks were made, panels were adjudicated, with the inexplicable feeling fading after a year or so, perhaps from decreased paranoia levels, perhaps due to removal surveillance, a closing of the books on this seemingly rehabilitated young, righteous bro.

But before all this, before the nights behind bars, the food poisoning, the elongation of sentence after meeting with the state case review officer, before all that, came the ultimate punishment.

Darkness. Outside at least, fear and hopefulness inside, inside my head, soul. Fear of what could come, hopefulness that it will be quick. It is not. They sit, at the table, not in their accustomed spots, but switched, listening to the initial rantings, to the warmup for what was to come.

Asked to explain myself, given the brief opportunity to mount a defense in the promise of unremitting onslaught, already tears welling in the corner of my eyes, the tears that flow when I let them, when I am moved by a book, or movie, or by the sheer reality of happiness, love, fear, pain.

My defense, my attempt to explain my actions, talk my way out of responsibility for what I had done, how I had at once brought shame and excitement to the small town, giving the lifers something to jab about for years to come, the tale of a young foreigner, offered the best medical services, allowed into their homes, given food, seen cycling through the streets, known as a child. This, this foreigner, comes here and takes money from a good native boy, with a KNIFE. Dangerous, unkind people. That’s what I’d be tempted to think at least, what I can see many saying in the privacy of their hearts, homes, while denouncing the thought in public.

But back to that moment, that intense rush, time goes crazy, accelerating and crawling at once, , which has perhaps been clouded over in my mind, as nerve receptors go dead after abused too long, perhaps it has made my recollection of that night hazy, but, one lucid, clear moment remains, when the last then viable option, my trump card is played to calm the best, to beg for mercy, to beg for a quick kill, to beg for death.

Death. Loss of the will to live. What’s the fucking point? I see what you mean, how my actions were so grievous, so utterly base and inhuman, that they leave me without a real reason for existence. So why not end it now?

There, the barrage of cruelty, the knife flensing away the coating of self-worth, me allowing it to slice away the thick skin, to see the tender vulnerability, the young boy, peeking out at the dark closet, for fear of the blood that seeps from under the door in his dreams, the hope that he could please this stoic, stern man dying, the hope that he could tackle any task, do anything well enough to please him ripped apart, entrails dragging on the floor, the figure stumbling towards the door, and a lonely death.

Is it that moment, when words finally worked their way through my swollen throat, when my face, plastered to my arm with snot and tears, left its spot, the mind remembering that the two were there, in their switched positions, crying with me, for me, and I cried out, slurred words stating purpose, the purpose of futility, the desire for it all to end, for the uselessness that my life had become to cease, for no more air to be wasted in my inadequate lungs.

Surprise. Surprise, perhaps even awareness that he might have cut too deep, that his words might have robbed me of too much, that I had taken them to heart, that they, while perhaps meant to help, had purposefully been used to hurt, or only seen so by me, the recipient.

Either way, the damage had been done.

The damage persists, hidden, I hazard, in a propensity to see the negative, to see the futility of things at times, obliviousness to damage to the self and to others. But also it is blissful, it is easy to squelch the dreams of doing something u-fucking-nique with this life I call my own, not being a cubemonkey, chasing the pipedream of corporate employment, wrapped up in the complexities of cubelife that the horizon can no longer be seen.

The damage is merely a scar, like those on face and head, arms ,elbows, knees, back and shins. What is this, but not another scar, something to caress at times, remembering the old times, remembering the pain and fear upon infliction, but then letting go, secure in the knowledge that the future is, to filch from a wiser man, tabula rasa, a blank page.

Love, Respect and the Preservation of Self

Can I blame myself, can I lash out at my soul, beating the caring, loving side into the background, for to gain and sustain a functioning, self- and mutually beneficial relationship with a member of the opposet sex with whom I desire more than a platonic or friendly relationship? Is that the path I must choose, constantly suppressing the side that seeks love, compassion, that will initiate closeness, that does not shy from opening up?
Can I, as I see men around me do, my roommate, the hot bartender's boyfriend, the boss-to-be-avoided at work, simply remain numb, seemingly disinterested in affection, in sharing passion? Does this put my in an inferior position, baring my soul such, asking for affection when it tugs at my strings, saying I love you, having watched her simply cooking and finding myself overcome by that powerful emotion?
In so many relationships, it seems that the man is either the bitch, or he has buried his feelings and any potential drive for simple affection, not just fucking, so deep in the depths of his soul, urged on by advertising and a common understanding that guys just don't fucking do that kind of shit?
I don't fucking care if I'm seen as a schoolboy bitch. If I crave some fucking affection, I'll get it from my girl.
But if I were to not openly request it, if I were to beat the sorry sombitch back onto his side on every occasion, eventually he'd stop coming out, or at least get sick and tired of the lashings and retreat, planning a possible return. What does this do to my position, when I initiate?
If I don't, if I let her do it, let her come to me when she's feeling like a hug, when she's feeling like she needs to touch me more than just as a precursor to intercourse, will she still love me, will she find herself frustrated that she's not getting the affection she needs, and seek it elsewhere?
I hazard that, regardless of levels of affection or sex, there are so many different and varied reasons that can drive a woman to another man, or woman, that any discussion should be restricted to an individual basis. It's chicken and egg.
However, can i more tightly bind the woman to myself, by remaining stoic and disinterested in extra-sexual affection, forcing her into my arms on occasion, forcing her to seek my touch, forcing her to take the initiative, should she feel the need for a hug. Is it worth it, if it becomes an annoyance, or if she outright says that I may not, so as not to scare her?
I can beat the love back, remain neutral, quick and loose, ready to jump ship, or not call her days, at the drop of a hat. But, perhaps despite myself, perhaps as a natural occurrence, the feelings eventually start seeping through, and the love becomes harder to ignore, harder to dismiss, harder, even, to forcibly abate.
How much of myself do I sacrifice, when I give in to the loving feeling, or when I work to keep it down? Is it worth the pain of loss when things completely fail? Is it worth the numbness when she asks you to draw it in, when you're perhaps trying to use it to compensate when you feel her pull back, when she is upset and maybe just needs som time to herself? Because, once the flensing begins, it lasts for some time, and you might just one day cut too deep.
Perhaps you already have.

Pedaling through the SoCal sun, on my way to see a movie I vaguely remember from a taped broadcasting, played over the car speakers on a family vacation, I see before me the faces and a snapshot of those who came before the last, and every time, with every breif glimpse into loves past, I feel the tug of that love, of an emotion uploaded, to rest on the subconscious, in ambush, but still hardly felt.
Hardly at all does it get past the barriers, past the failsafes and redoubts, the firewalls put up following those times when I was on the receiving end, when it was my heart that was broken, not the other way around.
Will the scars heal? Will the great gaping hole, filled somewhat these past four years, encourage me to retain fully the self, not giving so much love so quickly? Can I respect myself if I continue to run from self-respect, if I continue to blame my predicaments on losses past, continue to justify seeking an excuse why I can't do something, or why I should not be blamed when my fault is clear, just because I gave up, that night at the dinner table, with two whom I love till death daring not to leave, for fear of his wrath? Is it that pivotal event, when I relented under the dragon's pressure, instead of digging in my heels, brandishing words as my sword, taking the brunt of his force and turning it back on him, sending the two off, and making it clear to him that Homie don't play that, that yes I fucked up, big time, but I would take my licks, and keep on ticking?
I did not make it clear then and there, wish I had. But have of late, of the past week, come to see the need for accepting responsibility, for standing up and saying, yeah that was me. I did that. I knew it was a crime, but I did it anyway.
For what use to preserve the self, if it has been hidden form view in a veil of lies, hidden from true recognition by attempts to shift blame?
What use?

verse 22, Lao Tze, Tao Te Ching (John C. H. Wu, translator)

He does not make a show of himself,
Hence he shines;
He does not justify himself,
Hence he becomes known;
Does not boast of his ability,
Hence he gets his credit;
Does not brandish his success,
Hence he endures;
Does not compete with anyone,
Hence no one can compete with him.

X

The futility of the whole thing comes to light, about eight beers into the evening. Too content to just take a seat at the bar, too restless to stop moving, trying as hard as possible to determine what the glancing looks, the whispered conversations of the bartenders mean. Am I visibly drunk, is the disheveled, unkempt hair and four days worth of beard growth a sign of my lack of trustworthiness?

I am paranoid, there are too few people in the bar, too few people for me to hide amongst, to envelop me. Too few other hotnesses to admire save the bartenders, so close yet so far away, eyeing me occasionally, the crawling sensation in the mid-back alerting me to the increased attention, senses coming online, searching for the source of the gaze. Too often, it abates after I lock eyes for half a second with one of the vixens, embellishing her womanly traits, her body wrapped in soft cotton, poured-on denim, the other patrons of the bar either wrapped up in conversation or watching the Padres finally beating an opposing team, I rise.

Paranoid still in the night air, George the bouncer patting me on the shoulder as I exit, heading for the next drinking hole, right next door. Far darker, sweating bodies heaving against each other, the crowd lighter than suspected, the ratio off, paranoia again setting in, as I briefly watch the gyrating forms wriggling under cheap club lighting, before moving on the rear of the place, sneakers sticking to the floor as I round the corner, brushing past clumps of bodies, to a railing in the back. Popcorn, provided free by the management, hopefully there’s no arsenic in it.

Stop it. Don’t give in to old fears, or remember the old jokes, gradually shift to the positive, out of the paralysis of observation, the torture of non-action.

For some reason, the sight of the neighbor, met seven months earlier and never seen since except for just that evening, on the way to the bar, making his way towards me through the crowd sends me whirling in the other direction, back the way I came, sticky shoes propelling me back through the dancers, toward the exit. The sudden urge to flee, coupled with the desire not to be seen standing by myself, at the back of the bar, eating popcorn and neither talking to randoms nor hitting on the ladies, is what sends me north, a quarter mile, past the now-silent roar of the rollercoaster, past the empty stalls and sad dark windows of a carnival closed down for the night.

Once inside, the energy lifts. Different bar, more dancers, the ratio of women to men far more favorable, actually surprisingly enlivening. Energy surges through my veins, the chains of a nagging, mild paranoia become fully aware to me only as they slowly ebb, and disappear. Now the glances in my direction, the pleasant nagging in the mid-back can be addressed. I try to convince certain females to use the men’s stall, as I will be the only person in the room, the door not yet fully closed from the previous user, my hand arresting its progress, offering the services to these girls, now nervously turning to each other or straining their necks for any glimpse of salvation from the dancing bodies to their left.

Your loss, are stamped, typewriter style, across the sheet hanging in mid-awareness, against the noise of thought and speculation, scenarios and fantasies bleeding through, calculations of probability, cross-referencing modes of approach, tactics of the modern Californian courtship dance. So vast in its complexity, yet so simple in execution, the most valuable and fundamental lesson being that, if you are not successful with one woman, simply turn around and find hundreds other waiting to, at the very least, offer you ten seconds of their time.

Too much hand contact? Am I conveying the image of arousable male, without coming across as a complete scumbag? Don’t even try to talk around the speakers, don’t force it. After the third rejection, things get interesting. Positive eye contact from afar, nervous avoidance of eye contact as she slips by, two people out, on her way to the loo towed by her friend. I bide by time, order another Budweiser, putting them out of my mind, slipping through the crowd like a minnow through home waters, disappearing from view for a brief moment, from the collective memory of the place, finding myself again at the far side of the room, lazily eyeing the new hotnesses thronging at the door, desperate to find a way in.

Oblivious, I turn, to find her right next to me, back turned, dancing with her friend, who looks me straight in the eye. Fucked if that isn’t obvious, I think, wheeling to within a foot of her, waiting for a protective grab or sheltering from the friend. Closer now, she rubs her behind against me, my hands on her hips, words escape my mouth with the lack of control, an aftereffect of removing myself from the collective consciousness once again, this time due to my pairing with this young woman. She does not turn, and I silently sew my lips shut, seeing the corner of her friend’s eyes scrunch up slightly, in confusion, most likely because she didn’t hear what I said either, and cannot answer her friend’s question.

As I exit, pushing past the douchebag trying to convince the bouncer that he should be able to jump the line, purely on merit of coolness, I chalk up the downhill slide of the final attempted coupling to my apparent eagerness and friendliness, too much for these young girls. Perhaps I expressed too much desire or need with my smile, which emerged when her friend would check on me. Perhaps they found out that I was simply too drunk.
Either way, I walked out, giving up perhaps too early, and am now heading home.