#217

i got home after reading her story aloud to a room full of strangers. i changed only the last paragraph. she wasn't there to hear, i knew she wouldn't be, and when i got home i was in the kind of haze that people describe after having just one glass of wine past buzzed. you don't have to drink to get it. for me, it was that 3am feeling, when you know you should be sleeping or at least trying to sleep, but you're not. it's late. past the time that stray cats fight in the street. later than the local taco bell is open. it's too late even for the "shake-it-weight" commercials with the steroid popping, airbrushed-abs models.
in this kind of haze i feel more honest, consequentially more vulnerable. i want to call someone, but everyone's asleep or with someone else. i wonder which is true for her.
this is the kind of honest that doesn't come to me easily, the kind of happy-scared-where-is-my-life-headed that social constraints and long developed emotional inhibitions usually supresses.
most people say it's nothing that daylight or a cigarette can't handle. but daylight is waning faster these days and for once in my adult life i'd like to breathe the free air.
i watched her read it to a room full of strangers; i hid in the shadows of the back door. the audience was hushed and tearful and beautifully heartbroken when she finished.
tonight i read her story. the audience was left hushed and hopeful and warm. i only changed one paragraph. i only changed the ending.

#216

the bar was full, except the one drink she wanted, so she ordered a name she heard him drop earlier. looking at the bottle, maybe she pronounced it wrong? at first sip it wasn't great, but he pointed to the bottle and gave it a thumbs up, so she kept raising it to her lips intermittently, usually when he was turned towards her, and this wasn't her.
thick mist spewed from a machine and covered the floor and the speakers were so loud and she wondered what it would be like if the fog and music were too thick to walk through, like running in sand or mud or the kind of wind that races across Illinois plains.
he looked older and angrier outside of the stage light, and the singer started playing a song she didn't even write.

#215

i've tried about everything just to feel something for a single moment. everything's so fast now, and in your face. we're supposed to buy buy buy, because hell, what else are we going to do with our lives? can't be uncomfortable. or inconvenienced. we socialize behind our computers, at best, more likely a phone. can't stand to feel texture under our fingers, get a papercut. who gets a papercut anymore? and if we do, we're gonna sue Mead, dammit.
all the time i spent chasing new highs- money, skydiving, fast cars, the women (can't remember the details of a single one) didn't do a thing for me. just left me here with a whiskey voice, smoker's lungs and a bad back. i never offered anyone any real kindness or hope. never did anything for anybody but myself. and for all the moments i spent enjoying the moment, i could have put them all together and had something left over. a soul, maybe.

#214

the digital clock read-out was broken, but the still-blackened windows and frosted grass told me what i already knew. for a moment i cursed myself for forgetting my staff key, then found the door to the commons area already open.
he didn't look surprised to see me, and he pointed a rough hand towards the tea kettle. still hot.
i breathed in cinnamon and cardamom, faint ginger root. "couldn't sleep?" and it was more of an explanation than a question. immediately i knew it wasn't needed. crossing my legs in the chair, i pulled a worn blanket around my shoulders.
cupping a brown clay teacup with both hands, he opened his eyes to meet my gaze. i felt suddenly comforted, less awkward, simplistic.

"even the night time is beautiful. we mustn't always sleep through it."
the words soaked into the walls, like lacquer into weathered wood.

#213

henry rollins said that if you hate"the man" or your parents, revenge was in becoming better. earn more, he said. live longer. be more educated.

vengeful plan of action:
there's a Ph.D. on my wall. check.
their time's ticking down and i'm healthier than ever. check.
my bank statement shows another six figures every year.

ah, i feel so fulfilled! i have beaten them! squashed the man!

but, just in case, there's always fire ants.

#212

oh, right, so i'm supposed to thank you for the flowers even though i never asked for them. i never said i was grateful.
beet-red, open-mouthed, wild-eyed. it's not that becoming. guess i wasn't supposed to tell you that. especially during an argument.
is it still an argument if it's one-sided?
pieces of your indignant tirade hit me. something about sacrifice. something about caring or not caring.
my stomach hurts. i really shouldn't have eaten that burger for lunch and i say so.
you look at me in disbelief.
you're saying something about being the best boyfriend in the world. i blink once. guess life's not fair, huh?

#211

i talk about you from time to time. don't worry, i don't use your name. and even if i did, no one here knows who you are.
but, like most things, that was your choice too.
at first i was hurt; it confused me that you got bored. we were spontaneous and brilliant together. you brought words out of me that i never knew i had. for awhile, i thought i showed you just how much love could be real for you.
now i get it. you thrive on instability- you create mistakes and insecurities, and i saw too much in you that was strong and complete and good, and that... well, that wouldn't fit with your constant need for misery.
you have found nothing. exactly what you are looking for. you just don't know it yet.

#210

we slept to an hour that is usually considered late, like we slept in, you know what i mean, but he didn't comment on it or apologize for seeming lazy. the sun was up and high, trying different angles from the drawn blinds like a peeping tom.
i sat next to him, eating our apple jacks, and staring at my still-winter-white legs, flexing and stretching my muscles, and he puts an old Cash record on. i feel like a dreamer again- planning for the next stage of life, hoping for the best and ticking off mental laundry lists of everything beautiful coming in big numbers; ignoring the firm reality of input vs output.
today, for now, we are staying here, in a single moment.

#209 (compliments to w. whitman)

she pauses for moment beside the last picture in the hall, placing a trembling hand on the glass. a crooked-lipped boy grows from infancy to adulthood in the space between the foyer and the den.
"A child said 'What is the grass?' fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he."
she knows that all things begin because they are meant to end.
"I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps."
there is no need to look. every smile is memorized, the cowlicked hair (so obvious no matter the style), the creases of every ironed shirt etched into her mind.
"All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier."

seventyone

He noticed that her dress was only slightly darker than the wine, and the corner of her eyes sparkled like the glass. And they shared stories, but ones that people tell when they want to be only slightly more vulnerable than they would be with someone they met on the train to work. They didn't notice that they were taking turns trying to surreptitiously make contact with hands on the table, but they both noticed the resulting awkwardness. And there was laughing and stolen glances and a magic trick in which a cloth napkin hid the transmutation of a fork into three grapes.

And this became a story he told his grandchildren, but not for any of the reasons he expected.

#208

the venue was smoky, but not from cigarettes. machines spewed faux smoke to keep up appearances. blue and purple and green lights faded and changed and adjusted with the mood of the music. behind the fog was all eyeliner and collarbones and legs. deep voices laughed louder as the night wore on; the sloppy laughter of red stripe and pbr. of whiskey and coke.
the singer wasn't great, but the songs were, and by this point no one cared either way. she looked older than she was, hollowed cheeks and tired eyes, hidden under layers of L'Oreal.
and everywhere, the fake rhetoric of a generation based in hyperbole and disenchantment.

#207

she admired the plaques on the wall and medals hanging from striped and faded ribbons. each one had a story and he felt equally proud and uneasy relaying events to her, trying to make her understand the feeling in the pit of his stomach before a race, like a fist inside of him, growing and sending shivers and cold through his body, from the inside out, down to his toes, out through his fingertips. how even his jaw clenched and his heart beat faster waiting for the gun than during the run. studying a photo, he wondered what her thoughts were... maybe surprised at how dark his hair was, how twenty-five years can turn a runner's lean and muscular frame into a film critic's body.
he wondered if her respect and admiration for him today was contingent on his former glories. it's easy to be brilliant in the past.

#206

it's near the back of the store, not really "tucked" into anywhere, but set back behind all the innocent bottles. aspirin, allergy medicine, cough drops. behind all that is a line of women and men and they all look tired, but in different ways, and his mind raced, "who here is scared?" some approach the counter with a bit of hesitation. you can tell who has been coming here for years. you can see who is grasping their doctor's note in a white knuckled hand like a first time traveler clutching a brand new passport.
the pharmacist is bored, checking her hair for split ends and waiting for the credit card machine to run.
he steps up when she asks can she help whoever is next and she cracks her gum but doesn't flinch at what his card says. he wants to tell her how a neighbor man taught him to ride a bike when he was ten. he wants to tell her how he doesn't mind this abnormally hot summer so much. he wants to ask her who she would visit first, if the words on that paper belonged to her.

#205

the struggle between mystery and honesty has never been an easy line to balance. and i've never been such an easy target as now, mystery lying outside these four walls and all across the floor. truth running in a jagged scar up my thigh... is it not what you expected?
our first meeting you complimented my name, "so beautiful" as if i had achieved it. as if it were my choice. did i tell you my namesake is dead or that i never knew her? it is apparent now that her name did not bring with it her long brown hair and quiet poise. or is she more beautiful in death?
my mother's favorite child is my brother, and he looks nothing like my father.
mystery is lying all around us, and the only honesty i know to give is lost in your brilliant mind. you read into me the way your first-year poetics teacher taught you to read rilke and proust and balzac.
and still today you are no more ready for me than you were for them.

#204

it stared back at him, a grainy black and white, an obvious shaded corner from a haphazard finger covering the lens. a moment in life that felt like many incarnations ago.
he set it on the bare table, not taking his fingertips or eyes away. relationship without ego meant nothing to him then. there was no universal community. despite the ornate pagoda, her young smile remained the focal point of the picture. her insecurities the focal point of his youth. he'd been too brash, too arrogant, too hard. remembering the slow fade of life from her eyes, he quickly turned the photo facedown.
maybe if he'd learned to write a poem, or at least read her one. maybe if he'd taken any time to notice that no one withstand one-way love. maybe if she'd seen a glimmer of selflessness.
love is wasted on youth, and youth is wasted in ungratefulness and uncertainty.
a horn blew to signal dinner. sliding the picture into his antaravasaka, he prayed as always, for her next life, for her forgiveness. one day, peace would come.

#203

his eyes scan the room, looking for something to strike inspiration. finger-picking a light brown guitar with the typical darker brown trim, a musician sings about the death of his best friend. he wonders briefly if how many lyrics are autobiographical. a girl in the corner, attentive through the whole performance, begins to fidget. leading into the second chorus, she takes a quick swipe at her eye, squirms out of her seat and heads towards the bathroom.
a worker with dyed black hair comes from the back room with his jacket. Black Hair Skinny Jeans looks like he's in quite a rush- to a date, maybe with a girl, a guitar, or a courtroom. the couple in the corner smile at each other over the tops of steaming mocha, exchanging looks that can only mean their love is one that "no one else would understand".
he takes out his notebook and pretends to write, wondering if anyone is watching him back.

#202

every day for a week now, he'd watched her ride her bike to the house across the street. across the street, one over. the gray stone one to the left with the high arched doorways and shuttered windows. sundress floating in the breeze, pale ankles pointing and flexing with the rotation of the pedals. every day, bright shorts peeking out where her skirt flew too high and he wondered if that was just for the bike ride or if they were ever-present. mowing the yard, drinking smoothies on a coffee shop patio.
the neighbors were on vacation, but if they wanted to keep it a secret, they shouldn't have hired such an intriguing house-sitter.
he didn't know how much time was left, how long their cruise, flight, visit would last. already he was running out of ideas for ways to talk to her. leave an african violet on the doorstep? she seemed like the kind of girl who would like that, the mystery of it, a plant that is watered from the bottom up.

seventy

He coughed, near a century of breathing more smoke than wisdom, and drinking more gin than joy. "Everyone gets mad when you show them the gun but never fire it. I've found that, in the beginning, it's best not to bring it up at all."

sixtynine (re:#201)

She died today, and I wasn't there to hold her hand and I don't know if anyone was. All I had was the night-time walk through the suburbs in February that dried out my throat and my eyes and my heart.

There's nothing as desolate as the middle class at midnight.

Tiny rocks crunched under my sneakers and the hood of my jacket barely fit over my headphones and I'm talking to myself. It's like praying when you know there's no one listening.

And I'm telling myself some things that are true, and some things that are lies, and some things I can't tell apart. And I'm a plot desperately in search of some characters.

#201

Last night I dreamt of my father. Grass was growing already through his lifeless lips. My mother was all sticks and bones. The kind of thin you can feel in your hands when your fingertips touch her picture.
I am in a haze.
I have no mother or father and this is not something that comes suddenly. It sneaks its way through weeks so you feel surprised when it comes, but it has been there all along. Today I am merely a character in search of a plot.

sixtyeight

The cigarette burned to the filter, like a forgotten candle burns to the candlestick and then the house burns down to the foundation. He chuckled as he became acutely aware of the exposition; nicotine takes all the free will out of slow suicide.

sixtyseven

"how do you feel?"

"i don't."

But, I guess the best way to explain it is that it's like gazing upon the monolith in 2001 (the movie, not the year). Everything seems to make sense somehow, but you don't understand it, and you don't like it.

And, of course, it's full of stars, just like everything is.

#200

he sat facing her, the restaurant booths more comfortable than most, older than most too, judging from the threadbare base and long outdated color schemes. why was he thinking of these things at such a time? he chided himself.
hair falling over her blushing face, her eyes wandered around the diner. he watched her blink several times, knowing that she wasn't looking for the waitress, wasn't really looking at all. her lips moved slightly, a quiver, they way they do when you're about to speak but your mind acknowledges the imminent turn of events should you vocalize that thought, so you just take a deep breath instead.
"how long?" he broke the silence.
"2 weeks."

sixtysix

I heard his voice, but understanding it was like remembering a dream after you've had others. That feeling you get when something becomes less important.

I don't know if Khalil Gibran is my shoulder angel, or if I am his.

#199

i took a photo of your eyes. i said it was for an art project. not to sound like a stalker or anything, but i didn't have an art assignment. i'm not even enrolled in that class.

on a separate note, do you ever feel as though your soul is being watched?

#198

without asking, she rolled down the window. heavy city air whipped in, forcing her green eyes shut. for a moment, her visage consisted of only smudged blue eyeliner and a pair of thin red lips poking out under a tangled brown mane of hair. "oh i love this city" she sighed aloud. he'd driven these streets long enough to know that just because the words were in the air, it didn't mean they were directed to him.
each word came out quickly, she reached in her purse, then hands to hair, to window, back to her lap suddenly, as if every movement time-sensitive.
he thought of telling her to roll up the window, but something of the laughlines around her mouth made him stop. shifting her weight to face the window, her sleeve moved to reveal a small tattoo. it was a flag of a country in chaos. he wondered why this city deserved her love, why she gave it when she seemed so free and it felt so weighted. she made him think of guns and of his son, learning to use them against other men's sons. he thought of hope and despair and wondered which she held more of. maybe, for her, every moment felt temporary, every movement so near her last.

#197

after our first date i still didn't recognize your number, but i answered anyway. i felt like we really connected you said. i'm not sure if i agree but our dinner and a movie date felt familiar, like a modern version of something i'd done before. it wasn't exciting, but it was comforting, and maybe that's the most we can ask for. after all, we are a generation that tries to define itself with nostalgia. how else can we explain all the hollywood remakes of movies and shows we saw as children, in happier times?
so i thought of his face when you kissed me and felt his long arms when you hugged me. his voice resounded in my head when i read your email. maybe that's what we're all doing here, because we've let the best ones get away or we've broken their hearts to fully.

sixtyfive

It's a strange thing, civilization. And even that is a strange thing to say. But if I had to guess, I'd say that we invented civilization so that we could die peacefully, instead of dying hungry and alone and afraid and young. We were smashed with rocks and stabbed with sticks and starved to death and eaten by animals, and we didn't want that anymore. We wanted to die quietly, asleep, in the dark, when our hair is grey or gone. And so we created fictions and we created truths and we created Aspirin. And so, like Apollo 13 catapulting around the moon, we created bullets that can travel miles and bombs that can travel continents and atoms that can melt the world.

So really, we created civilization to sate our hunger for irony.

#196

"you told me to think about my early twenties. all the places that my life revolved around; the people. and my memories feel like i'm reading a book, like it's far away and the writer is searching for a way to draw me in, so i can identify."
he scrawled a few notes. "do you? can you feel a personal connection?"
"i'm skeptical at first. will this character turn on me, break my heart? maybe she's not trustworthy, or she's waiting for the right moment to pounce."
"she is you. you can know her motives."
she shifted. "no. i can't. it's like watching a movie, and she looks like me. i can see her from any angle i put the camera. but cameras don't go inside. not in here." she placed a finger to her temple. a palm across her chest. "but those familiar lpaces. every detail makes them feel closer to home, closer to now. there she is, in my mind, the first week of classes, crying alone on campus after hearing of her old schoolteacher's death. months later, overwhelmed by the brashness of overstimulated delta sigs."
"is that how you feel now? is this where you identify with her?"
"beyond all that, all those scenes, i see a girl who handled it all with grace and clarity and maturity. i look at where i am now and it still feels like a book. but now? it's like a first draft written by a first year, middle-aged ESL student. i am choppy and hazy and on the second read-though, the author herself can't remember the meaning behind the third paragraph."

#196

What happened to you today? They asked.
Well, there was an ant on the sidewalk, the biggest ant of the whole spring so far and it was carrying something big. Maybe a French fry. Probably from the Rally’s down the street. Did you know that ants are indigenous to every continent but Antarctica? Isn’t that funny because Antarctica starts with Ant? It’s like a joke, like a continental joke and isn’t it funny?
He flexed his skinny arms. Ants can carry 20-50 times their own body weight, you know. People aren’t like that; most people can’t lift much more than their own body weight.
Interrupting his thoughts again, the officer tapped his pen, asked something about what he saw when he got home. He’d had a snack. He always got pudding in his lunch sack even though he didn’t like it. But it was okay because the other kids at school would trade him, pudding for cream pies, pudding for fruit snacks. The house was quiet, not like usual, so he got some milk and drank it with a straw. You can slurp loud or blow bubbles with a straw. It was a green one. Green is his favorite color today.
He asked to see his mom now because Thursday is when he takes a bath and today is Thursday. The officers exchanged glances; this might be harder than usual.

sixtyfour

I think we might have set some sort of record for awkward half-glances, if anyone keeps track of such things. It's strange when you don't know what to say, like anything you say now you'd regret later if you ever thought about it. And it's strange when someone wants to do amazing things with their life, only without you in it.

#195

you reminded me of a time before instruments were mass produced, before every guitarist pulled a trophy room of fenders on the stage each night, two-thousand-dollar martins, switching colors for every song. before musicians traded love and grace for showmanship and violence, pulling at each string like coyotes ripping feathers from a chicken.
it used to be a browned cowboy with thick hands, made suddenly beautiful and cautious, careful not break a string.
every show is coarse, songs interrupted with bad jokes and impatiently tapping toes while a technician changes strings and mechanically tunes E A D G B E.
for the first time i watched you play, and you seemed so old, so spiritual. everything affected you, each eyelash quivering by sweetly vibrating soundwaves, and i believe you felt it. you held the neck like it was a newborn, you were a proud and gentle father, your voice coaxing and aching. you reminded me of a time that held love and work and gratitude.

#194

cowering under the table, the hardwood reverberated with his pounding footsteps. the tip of his brown boots piked under the tablecloth. steel toe. they were worn, a present reminder of a past in which he worked each day with his hands, on his feet. his hands and feed were used for such different purposes now.
a shattering noise. it was a picture frame and her confidence all at once. she pinched her eyes tightly shut and willed the table to remain standing, not to buckle under his raging fists.
shards, stuck between piano keys, stuck in her bare feet after he passed out on the floor and she trembled out of her last hiding place.

#193

look, princess. i get that you crave attention. your insistent flirting and "look at me! look how cute i am!" demeanor used to make me pity you. low self esteem perhaps. maybe you weren't hugged enough as a kid. (looking at you now, maybe you weren't clothed enough as a kid either.) obligingly, i put up with it. smiled at your purple rimmed eyes and suffered through a few double dates. i said nothing when you tried to tickle fight my boyfriend. i kept silent when you ran your polished fingers through his hair, when you full-frontal hug him for much longer than necessary.
no part of me believed you'd be around much longer.
so imagine my dismay when you told me you're moving in next door.
i know our relationship has taken a turn for the worse. it's just a lot easier to be nice to somebody when you think they're temporary.

#192

the gifts from my mother are always the strangest. every once in awhile on a foggy day in june a box will be sitting expectantly on my doorstep, with HAPPY BIRTHDAY or CONGRATULATIONS or some other such nonsense written on the side in colored sharpie.
they never come on my birthday, and i can't remember the last time i did something worthy of a "congrats", much less the full word, spelled correctly or otherwise.
whatever's inside is always wrapped in paper from who-knows-where with the ugliest or strangest patterns available.
it was a plant once, still in the pot. a variety pack of chapsticks from somewhere in asia. moccassins, which would have been cool had they been colored, or hey, made for a woman and not a man.
obligingly, i always send a thank you note, explaining my joy at finding a new package. she doesn't like phone calls. if nothing else, i've learned the joy of giving. and not to open a new bottle of wine before internet shopping.

#191

not yet inured to the callousness of Western journalism, she cringed at the news report.

a young girl, a deadly car crash. "tragic accident" flashed on the screen, punctuated by pictures of a lithe blond in a denim miniskirt. "...kills teen" and then her visage, smiling.

the newscaster, with feigned emotion and an aptly placed touch on the mother's arm, repeated phrases like "what a horrible thing to happen to such a beautiful girl" and "sad story and such a pretty little thing", as if that mattered, then or now. as if beauty were somehow a justification for life. would anyone care if she were ugly?

what would the teleprompter read if she had bad hair and crooked, toothy smile, but had a beautiful and quiet heart?

she looked in the mirror and prayed that she wouldn't die young. the only thing worse than that, would be to have it go unnoticed.

sixtythree

This damn pen is out of ink but I don't care because I can still write what I wanted and the words bleed through the paper just like blood would and you'll take another piece of paper and scratch across it with a pencil like you did when you were young and made pictures of leaves or the soles of your shoe. And you'll know everything.

sixtytwo

My suitcase carries souvenirs from everyone and everywhere, and the zippers are near bursting, and I never want to go back. The pictures I took with the messages on the back and the reminders on the back and the photo paper stuck back to back; all I see is an amateur record of architecture, invasive lighting, and half-closed eyes, and I never want to go back.

#190

when i heard that i am from mars and you are from venus, it made sense, because you've always felt so distant. plus, i know you're with me because i'm hotter than all the others. and you seem like a less hospitable version of someone else.
it's okay, darlin. let's keep circling our issues. if we get to close, we might just go up in flames.

#189

as she wrote, the pen pressed awkwardly against her palm. that's what no opposable thumb will do for penmanship. "...people are more willing to ask about my physical scars than about you leaving, but i think this is easier without you..."
she appended the letter with a quote rather than her signature, cursive only vaguely reminiscent of her past old-fashioned swirling m's and slanted t's.

#188

she handed him a picture. in his hands it felt small and cheap. "i wrote on the back of it!" she chirped and skipped away, clutching a purple hello kitty zipper pouch holding the rest of her wallet-sized photos for friends. judging from the bulge, he guessed her parents bought her the largest predetermined picture package.
typical streaked blue background made her azure eyes bold, made wider under thick mascara, shiny hair perched in curls on her shoulder. he imagined her practicing her prom court smile in a hand mirror, her surprised face.
he flipped it over. in black stamped ink, it read <3 ya! and her name, written in pink gel pen bubble letters.

#187

from the first day we met, i was taken. pale and ethereal. you were a grandmother's china- dainty and full of blossoms, but everyone treated you as such, including me. you were put away on a shelf, so pristine, so rarely taken down and held and touched and used. no one willing to take responsibility for chipping you, maybe dropping you on the floor.
it was pure selfishness (an oxymoron at best), my own psyche- but i felt brave enough- foolishly believed i would not, could not let you break. it will never be enough, but i am so sorry. i am sorry i cannot pass you down to our children, to our grandchildren, to a world in need of carefully packed heirlooms.
you, who was so careful with every word, with every movement. you always loved as if one of us had died.

#186

"i saw the link to your online blog yesterday. i read some of it."
she was chewing gum, but more as an afterthought. not the way cheerleaders and football coaches do. "oh yeah? you like it?"
"the pictures are pretty and the whole atmosphere of the blog is tastefully artsy, maybe a little arrogant. enough to be intriguing. it's just not what i expected, i guess."
her face fell a bit and i saw her chewing over whether to ask any follow-up questions, unsure of where i was going with my critique. she inhaled, ready with defenses.
"it's just... you say it's about your life, and i know i can't tell you what your life is, or who you are. but you're not such a carefully crafted person in reality. you make mistakes and the lighting isn't always perfect, and you only see art films maybe twice a year. in real life you get angry about silly things and you step on bugs and you get dark circles under your eyes, which are decidedly un-artsy."
with a slow exhale, the defenses paused long enough to listen.
"i guess i just hope you don't think the life you portray is better than the life you live."

#185

funny how passing her on the sidewalk today made me look in the mirror for the first time in days. i haven't bought new clothes in so long... i know what all of them look like on me. stuck in perpetual suspension- i never lose or gain weight, height, dreams.
we've never met or spoken, but i've heard her voice and laugh after taking a call at the bus stop. she's a girl i'd like to ask out for drinks if there was a way to ask her without saying how much i fully like her even though we've never formally met.
it's better that today wasn't the day because the mirror tells me i'm due for a shave, a haircut, and i certainly don't have two bits.

#184

as requested, she wore a light, airy blue skirt, the kind that girls wear to coffee shops in the summertime, the ones that reveal lovely wintery pale legs and usually usher in girls' favorite summer pasttime of excusing themselves from impromptu frisbee games due to faux decency. the camera shuttered and clicked around my neck as she shyly melded into poses. long fingered hands in her hair. head, shoulders, knees and toes. scars and toes. bones and toes.
every flaw unscripted, now on film, now digitized for future scrutiny.
then late nights, adjusting lighting, adding effects, sepia this, layer that. hoping to draw beauty from the pain. she cannot acknowledge that each scar is her body rebuilding, every leftover divot in flesh is a reminder that she healed, that she did not die. if i can show her the truth of her healing, the tenderness and beauty of her percieved flaws, i can show her how i am aching to love her.

#183

often i wake up in a cold sweat. my wife thinks it's a compassionate lie when i tell her i don't remember my nightmares. it's good to tell the truth.
i haven't dreamed in probably ten years and the last nightmare i can detail was of my best friend. he wrote me a letter saying thanks for being like a brother to me. he wrote i love you, thanks for everything you've done for me.
the only difference was in my dream he didn't write "but" and in my dream they didn't call it a suicide note.

#182

today's list included fresh fruit shopping at kroger with my own basket. it makes me feel freer and more aware, and environmentally conscious. while in the store i will make the same joke twice to different people about my pale legs and the newly discovered springtime sun. the conversation will begin as i'm perusing the fruits. the toothy-but-boyishly-handsome stock boy will ask me if i need help. i will laugh say something about always needing help, but then i'll comment on the weather and out of politeness he'll reply. then my charming self-deprecation will take over and maybe he'll wish we could go on talking, but then i'll find exactly the right apple i was looking for. smiling and tossing my head, i'll walk away and i won't look back to see if his eyes follow me, even though it will be hard.
on the way home i'll rent a movie. comedy in hand, i'll answer fake phone call on my way up to the register. i'll chat away about how it was such a hard decision and Oh! you wanted to watch a horror movie tonight? well, darling, let me just change this silly thing out for something we'll both enjoy. after hanging up, i'll smile apologetically at the cashier. i'll be just a minute, so sorry!
driving out of the parking lot of course i'll let the gentleman beside me go first! i haven't a care in the world! i am such a free, happy spirit!
i like to do charming and ordinary things to make it seem like i don't go home at night alone.

sixtyone

I had nowhere else to be, but the phone invaded my half-sleep. It was old, the color of key-lime pie, with a spiraled plastic cord tangled on itself. The numbers on the dial were half worn off and the bell sang a labored breakbeat. I picked up the phone and and it was a senator. I'm still asleep.

sixty

Day 37:

I can't do this anymore. I can't read my own handwriting and I don't know that I want to and I don't know if it's because of my hands or because of my eyes. I've run out of things to say to you but I can't tell no one else has because they're talking a mile a minute but the substance of their words only reaches a foot and a half.

I'll just have to leave and be someone else.

I can't find my keys.

#181

i almost approached you. but these days you always have to be careful. which you weren't, because you were backed up against a brick wall, too close to the corner to make a quick getaway.
the black leather jacket you were wearing looked like it may have been from a thrift store, but i'd like to think you've just been a leather jacket kind of woman for awhile now. i couldn't tell what book you were reading, but i love a girl who reads standing up, even though it was nearly dusk. to be honest, i was hoping you'd come upon some funny passage, that the author would be gracious enough to let me see you smile.
your face is too pretty to have all that hair falling in front of it.
anyway, i'm sorry i didn't say hi. i wish a good, non-creepy pick up line existed so i could know your name. but i'm a little too tall and my hair wasn't quite clean, and it wasn't exactly daylight when i saw you.
what i'm trying to say is, you look like the kind of girl who'd mace the hell out of a guy like me.

fiftynine

It was his first day back at school since the crash. His hobble had gotten a bit stronger, and he could almost see more than light and shadows from his left eye. Navigating the staircase with his cane was easier than expected, but still made him feel like an old man. History class had just ended, and his classmates filled the hall. And she hugged him even though it hurt, and she kissed his cheek even though it wasn’t allowed, and she smiled from inches away even though she didn’t love him.

fiftyeight

The leaves fell from the tree like a slain crow’s feathers, and the warm wind thawed the frost from the night before. The house was abandoned and the yard was deserted except for the leaves and the frost and the wind and the echoes. So much paint had flaked off the outside walls that the dirt meeting the foundation was half-brown-half-ivory. And it’s far enough away that you can’t hear the city anymore, but at night a corner of the sky is orange and white and artificial.

#180

twisting twice through the revolving doors, her mother was quick to chide her behavior. "how old are you?!" she hissed.
so she thought oh my! what if i really didn't know my age? i could be six or nine or twelve! looking at her hands, her legs, catching a glimpse of her long features in an ornate mirror. okay, maybe sixteen or nineteen or twenty-two.
nineteen was good year.
picking up her handpainted bag while her mother flirted futilely with the square-jawed concierge, she played with the ends of her skirt. each lobby painting was subtle and chosen for its extraordinary mediocrity. unoffensive fake flowers lay in beige pots on the coffee table. she pulled a locust shell from her pocket, setting it lightly on the fake peat moss. coyly, she smiled.

#179

after graduating summa cum laude, he went through a period of life that was nothing like anyone expected. of course, it was the first time he made a decision based solely on the fact that it might be the wrong one. social networking wasn't all the rage, and the bulge in jeans pockets was round containers of chew or powder compacts and the occasional packet of gum, not cell phones.
he was dirty and artistic for a whole year. his chocolate hair grew and curled at the end, he learned to brush it behind his ears before it surreptitiously ended up right back hanging in front of his eyes.
he wrote. pages and pages worth. there were always girls and bottles and music- from guitars and from stereos and it was all just a two year-long blur of self-destruction and creation. just as quickly, he left that life and those lives.
that was so long ago.
he passed a girl on the street today. two steps later he turned quickly; surprised when she did the same. they locked eyes longer than social niceties allow for strangers. instinctively, he reached up to brush a non-existent curl from his eyes. he looked down at his navy suit and conservative tie, then back to her open-toe kitten heels, and pencil skirt. a flash of pale skin, then only the back of her head- a sleek bun and retreating back.
and isn't it funny how we expect people to stay the same?

#178

it was the same diner you find in every little dive town. mugs the color of old cream with a brown stripe around the top. chipped pie plates served on long-stained tables pressed against faded orange-or-red booths that would look obnoxiously bowling alley if not for their age. in the corner, an aged, inured waitress who never bothers to carry a pen or paper anymore.
the talk is always of grandkids or conservative politics. the only talk of what's to come involves the crops versus current water table.
walking in, the smooth face, hair dye and lack of the obligatory layer of dust was immediately suspicious. steaming pot of slightly burned old coffee in hand, the waitress started to pour him a cup. "you're not from around here, are you, son?"
an unneccessary question.
he looked at her. their eyes were strikingly similar. "i could have been."

#177

i want you to kiss me in the back of a darkened movie theatre. i know it is so cliche. but maybe we'll both reach for popcorn, our fingers already buttery (i can never resist) and you'll let me take a piece first, just like you always do. i'll snatch it up quickly, faster than usual- like the way you speed up to cross the street when you know a car is waiting patiently. i'll smile a thank you and let it rest on your face longer than necessary. just long enough that maybe in that moment you will remember how much you loved me in moments before... back when moments were longer. then you'll kiss me, hard, and i will reach to meet you. you will wrap your arm around me, resting my head on your shoulder and i will still be smiling, feeling safe.

you're coming out of the bathroom, pulling our tickets and your wallet from your back pocket. "you want popcorn tonight?"

"yes please. with butter."

#176

she said my name and it sounded like an aside so instead of acknowledging her, i looked around for the audience.
the theatrics of trying to pull me into bed. lying to myself that it was about love and sexual honesty instead of another war game. all the spoils to the prettiest player.
i am her security but i am not her protector. no one ever told me about the dark side of truth. she is weak! i thought. she needs me! i justified.
turns out she's been frighteningly lucid this whole time. turns out i'm not much more than her demesne. the conning and fated Drouet to her Sister Carrie. turns out, it's not so much what she says, as how it looks in writing.

#175

"so what makes you think your life is so bad?" he didn't really know why he was asking. as a bartender, he usually grew weary of hearing every sad story, every backwards life decision followed by a snowball of regret, financial ruin, lost love, and just when things start to look up... then the obligatory dicey choices to start the cycle over again. but there was something about this guy. a kind of desperate faux joe cool that wasn't like the others.
across the counter, he pressed his lips together and took a slow sip of blue moon. was this four or five? doesn't matter much after the whiskey. he looked over the room. to his left, down two stools, a short girl with tanned skin sat nursing a rum and coke. she was young to be in here, especially alone. the only other person in the bar, picking up his coat and leaving through the front door.
he turned back to the bartender; proceeded to talk of how his father was never at home when he was a kid. his unhappy middle-aged housewife mother who thought an elite education was better than spending time with her son. "my high school graduation was spent with friends i knew were there only while the weather was fair. and what did i do? i turned my adult life into the same thing my childhood was. i used money to get whatever i wanted. my wife doesn't love me. not that married her for that anyway."
"it's a tough break man."
movement from the stool to his left. the girl turned a pretty-but-bored face to him. slapping a few bucks on the bar, "keep the change, Jerry" and as she began to walk out, filled the almost-empty bar with her voice. "sounds like first world problems if i ever heard them."

#174

they flocked to him, cameras glinting, microphones in hand, a flurry off interrogations. it was the part of all of this athletic prowess that he wasn't familiar with; had never grown accustomed to, even though she had breezed through it laughing, with a simple grace, often joking about broccoli in her teeth and later dismissing it all as the media's blustery fickleness.
now they turned to him as she lay unresponsive, finally stable, yet unable to set him at ease, to flash the strength or the smile that made a nation adore her.
carefully he began to speak of her tragedy, and when they inquired about regret he answered only, sometimes, even i forget that she is fragile.

#173

she was the one who taught him that a literal slap in the face hurts far less than the metaphorical one.
she loved everything so emotionally, so symbolically, maybe because her mother never did. everything she loved became too abrasive, too abusive. like family and alcohol and whiteout and natural disasters. chasing after steel plated hearts, grasping at them with her clammy hands. if only she was made of fire.
if only she hadn't been broken.
she was different than anyone he'd met. maybe it was a different time. maybe she was the last of the substantial. she was the last before girls' brains were made of only glitter and self-absorption.

#172

if i press my knees hard into the back of the bus seat maybe you will turn and ask me to stop. maybe you will say i'm sorry, it's my back, you see. i have problems with it. and i would be immediately apologetic. you'll see right away how sorry, how nice i am. i'm sorry, sorry. i was just stretching. you might begin to turn around again and i'll interject. i have a bad back too sometimes. and maybe we will bond over this problem that nobody wants.

#171

frantic.
searching a box under his bed. where is it? anything, anything.
a whole day of his life, gone. vanished, nowhere in his memory. he scanned the wall. pennies, cigarette butts, notes, headlines, each with a tiny date scribbled in his own handwriting.
if i can't remember, it never happened. if there's nothing to document, how did i know i was here?
every moment, missing.

fiftyseven

She showed him the stars like another person would show off pictures of their nieces. “And there’s Orion. And that’s Venus. Wait, no... Yes! It is!”

“And that blinking one is a satellite, if you watch it you can see it move.” Everything is that way. Everything becomes something different, somewhere else. And this wasn’t one of those times after which the world ends, but it let him know that someday there might be one of those times.

“Mars would be... behind all those houses over there.”

fiftysix

That road’s been closed for construction for three years. I think they’ve forgotten about it. Or, if not, they should.

The rain that taps the roof of the car is rain only because it’s just barely too warm to be snow. I want to see people and I want to see life but there’s none of that here, and it’s hard to have high hopes in a city it takes ten minutes to get across.

#170

moonlight etched its way through the branches and shone through her eyes. laying back against the old oak, he looked at her, replaying their best moments in his mind.
he remembers me differently, she thought.
and she was right. he remembered her delicately, his memories of her fluttering softly, like butterfly wings.
he was the first and last to see me that way.
since then, her life's gambit was Hemingway's iceberg theory. her only fear was that it has been so long since she adopted it.
maybe now my surface is all that exists.
he knew she was quieter now, more abrasive, with a strained a confidence. but like always, he saw her accurately, like some sort of emotional Superman, viewing every heartbreak and subsequent stronghold. it was time to make a decision. should he hold each memory at arm's length? let her go on with the life she created? or maybe, hold each butterfly gently cupped between to trembling palms, trying to peek at this momentary beauty. trying to see if that beauty really was so fleeting.

#169

three years ago he had forgotten to lift his glass for the toast. it had all the pretty phrases... "perfect for each other" and "you'll do great things together" but in each speakers' mind, the words were only that. and now she still treated him the way she always had, so he lied and justified the way he always had.

waking from a dream at 4:30 on a tuesday morning, he cursed that damn glass... a sign too late.

#168

they moved across sidewalks and crosswalks in the way that fish swim. scattering, moving, riding the current. occasionally one or two took the bait, walked away with a newspaper, took a hot dog or got sucked in under a damp awning. almost every one was caught and thrown back in, immediately unrecognizeable; instant oneness. just once, she thought, as she moved with the flow, just once i want to be caught and kept. not knowing exactly what that meant.
unblinking, she ducked out of the rain and into a store, her jacket shining like scales.

#167

the morning was warm as usual. she slipped out of bed, showered in lukewarm water with white scentless soap. dutifully, she poured a bit of the bottle of lavendar bodywashe her new husband bought her down the drain. he would hold her that night, she would feel his hands laying gently on her hips, and he would say how nice she smelled. he would say that he loved her. taking his hand in hers, she would roll to face him, kiss him but say nothing, and feel guilt that she could not be so honest.

#166

"A traditional Russian dance!" he yelled through his vodka. Feet stamping, beads of sweat appearing on his face, he danced. Through the thick air, strong, vivacious girls called for another round and yet another and he took down too large of a glass in two superhuman swigs. Violins played hotly and he threw his arms to the air, then crossed them again. He had seen too much in his violent life, but when drunk on blood-red patriotism and domestic liquor, these are things a man can't help.

#165

i've never seen her smile. she barely lifts her head up, peeks out from under those lashes, and it just kills me how sad she is.
but she's good at her job.
she's good at mystery too. gray. always gray shoes, gray sweaters. gray eyes, the one time i saw them. she doesn't believe in absolutes.
tomorrow she's getting flowers at work. i want her to know that even if you can't see the world in black and white, a foggy gray haze isn't the only alternative.

#164

everyon's always planning ahead, but life never turns out the way you think. like when my aunt bought baby blothes for me before my grand entrance to this world. i surprised them all by being a boy, but my aunt was so upset that i spent the first month of my bald life being called called "the prettiest little girl" by strangers in supermarkets, who looked at my easter-colored dresses and made the assumptions any well-meaning observer would make.
grandma started knitting mittens for me in July. by septemeber, we had moved to florida.
my mother kept her old saxophone from high school in hopes that her child would appreciate it one day. since i inherited neither the talent nor the desire, she finally pawned it shortly after my 19th birthday. just in case my mother thought she could still hold onto any kind of hope, in a cruel trick of the universe, i destroyed any chances of having siblings while in utero. sorry mom. maybe i was planning ahead.

#163

I don't know if I was born with a heart, really. I had a functioning shell of something filled with blood, pulling it in and letting it go just like we do with each other, warming ourselves in someone's arms, then being cast off too soon, hopefully ready, hopefully able and strong and clean. Functioning isn't the same as being whole.
So then everyone who comes along with a kind word, drops off a little piece of heart, making me stronger maybe. Then you. And you showed me the sky but while i was looking up, you grabbed so many pieces of my heart, reaching in like a child snatching cookies behind his mother's back. You were gone before I could say wait!
you should know it took many, many people to fill up all those pieces that you stole.

#162

she asked for a dollar. i don't have any cash.
come on, she persisted and started telling me of her kids (real or imagined), her broken down car, her Christianity (ah, there's the God-card i was waiting for, thanks for playing).
refusing her again, she followed me, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear and spreading apart the top buttons of her blouse.
i've never been so happy to see a taxi in my whole life. sorry, darlin'. you're one of the least compelling people i've ever met.

#161

it is unspeakable that i should go on with my life while hers is crashing down all around her. this morning's "to-do" list included preparing ground turkey for taco night, folding laundry, writing a letter to my grandmother. has it been a week, two weeks, more, since she has had the heart to touch pen to paper? to-do lists notwithstanding.

my funniest cousin called me yesterday, recounting his day and i laughed, i laughed till my eyes were wet and there was a certain pain in that, knowing that all of her laughter recently is only laughter of relief and not of joy.

i feel the burden to act melancholy, because i feel melancholy along with her, i do ache for her. what am i to say? my laughter makes me feel calloused; i only just heard the latest news. every phone call home reminds me of how much i hold in my hands every day.

i dread seeing her destroyed.

#160

I found you and I today, resting happily in the 5th chapter of my favorite book, on a page with all the prettiest words held in faded flourescent yellow.
I haven't highlighted a moment of my life since you've been gone.

#159

everything looks beautiful if you don't look to deeply.
clean cut and bright, he talks about God in certain circles and lays his alleged faith down on Friday night without remorse. she leaves public announcements of love for him, but sheds her skin every Saturday.
choking on cynicsm, i smile, the light in my eyes reflecting a wrathful fire inside.
i'm staring hard into the solar eclipse hoping it will tell me what happened to my heart.

fiftysix

You fell asleep with your feet out the window at sixty-seven miles per hour. You mumbled something about a kitten eating tortilla chips. Tom Waits played on the radio in between the gentle hissing.

I've never told you that you talk in your sleep. I think I'll keep that between me and your subconscious.

#158

every monday through friday now for months he rode the morning train. she was always in the subway before him- had arrived early enough to procure a bench and she always sat in the same coat with the same familiar white wires running from her pocket to her ears and he wondered what they told her every day.
he thought of this as he walked to the subway, earlier than usual, earlier than ever before, determined to greet her at the bottom of the stairs. glancing around the room, then at his watch, he settled down near the stairs, waiting. as he sat, his eyelids grew heavy.
startled by the clack of high heels, his head snapped up. there she was! right in front of him!
without a chance to speak or even catch her eye, a dollar dropped from her hand into his lap. she walked on.
no, he hadn't planned on what to say to her. the need for "i'm not a bum" hadn't crossed his mind.

fiftyfive

Her lips whispered blackmail, her throat breathed empty promises. It's ten to midnight and after that I have nothing left. The future is gone and been replaced by something new, but nothing as holy as tomorrow. She keeps the rhythm of the seconds with the toes of her boots and the snap of her finger and the click of her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "A strange fascination, you have," she says, with the condescension only reserved for me, "with that which is here and then gone, never to return."

fiftyfour

He coughed up smoke and cinders and all of his dreams. The tears in his eyes, though soon gone, told his story to himself. Boys don't cry. Ever. A contaminated life in contrast, a black a white a central grey making shadow puppets on the wall. The story the tell is grand. And the paint on the glass is peeling away in the shape of fingernails and months of carelessness. And one day, he knows, this all has meaning outside of itself.

fiftythree

'Hotel California' was on the karaoke. Terribly. His throat was dry, and his eyes were not. "It's nothin' in particular," he said like a man twice his age or twice as drunk. "Nothin' said and nothin' did. It's just what it is." Footsteps filed passed, raucous laughter and sensual swoons and 'it' being taken outside. More players for the overdramatic. Some hands on his shoulders now and again, looking for someone else. Someone who, they say, looks just like him, same haircut, same nose, that's crazy, man, sorry, have a good night. It's mistaken identity even when you don't recognize yourself anymore.

#157

the big picture window was ominously black by 6pm. night comes so early and lasts so long these days he thought.
heaving a sigh and looking back down, he continued his work, taking note, yet again, of the deadline circled on his desk calendar.
SPLICK
"what the...?" he looked up. a nerf gun arrow was stuck to the window. he leaned closer to the window, squinting into the darkness.
SPLICK, SPLICK. SPLICK-SPLICK-SPLICK.
it continued and he jolted back as a rush of arrows assalted the window. curiously, they stuck in an ill-balanced heart shape.
his wife emerged from the shadows, blowing imaginary smoke from the barrel of her gun, and laughing. he had never been more in love.

#156

he closed his eyes tightly, partially to hide the aggravated roll, and to try and bring a bit of sanity back into his life.
across the conference table, she tossed her shiny, product-laden hair over her shoulder, touched her lawyer's arm and continued with her self-serving demands.
ugh. models! he thought.
she peered across the table at him, playing the part of the wounded animal, peeking her gigantic doe eyes out from under fake eyelashes.
maybe bambi's mom had it coming.

#155

i drank myself sick last night for no particular reason. nothing was on television, so i feebly attempted that new video game. everything nowadays is first person shooter.
so i decided to be the first person to take a shooter in my new apartment.
unfortunately, i had a limited supply of beverages.
i can still taste that entire gallon of chocolate milk.

fiftytwo

"So what changed?" she asked through the roar of seven giant television screens on the wall happily engaged in American football broadcasts. Didn't know this was a sports bar.

"You know, I never thought about it," and it was the truth. Exhaustion. Repression. It was like being stuck under the peg on a map on a classroom wall.

Maybe, like most things, it was because one day, he needed someone like her to ask him that question. Any earlier or any later or any one else and he might have had a different answer and never thought about it again.

"I guess what changed was that I began to believe I'd still be me even if my life moved slower than my heartbeat."

fiftyone

The warmth in his belly wouldn't last long, he knew. The snare drum echoed off the walls out of time, syncopating and syncopating syncopating. He closes his eyes and imagines his life as if it happened like it's happening in the song, a solemn introduction and crescendos and tearful harmonies and awkward, out of tune intermissions. The waitress interrupts him, he respectfully declines. She seems nice. He watches her walk back to the kitchen and imagine what song her life sounds like, and he just met her but he wonders what their songs sound like intertwined.

#154

hiking her patterned dress up to her knees, she looked up and down, judging the distance from the ground to the top of the tire swing.
tucking a wisp of white, curled hair behind her ear, she readjusted, and pulled herself up with a burst of energy. momentum started the rope swinging, the tire spinning her slowly as she drifted back and forth.
she laughed, glistening eyes and wrinkled face turned towards the sky.

#153

27ty: "i love smart women."

imcute: "like, what do you mean?"

27ty: "for example, a properly used semicolon is quite the turn-on for me."

imcute: ";)"

27ty has signed off.

#152

he listened to them talk about their travels. their eyes were bright, voices empassioned; they were dancing around with pictures of poverty and hugging scattered children. every sentence laden with guilt-inducing keywords, the presentation held every proper heartrending, soul-changing moment of the trip. after a conclusive but unconvincing statement from each member of the trip of how they planned to go back, to raise money, to work for reform, he left.
returning home to his simple and empty apartment, he finally understood why he always felt different.
they would keep their belongings, but become (as least temporarily) enthralled with the idea of giving more to others. they would make frequent trips to goodwill to create room at home for more, more, more.
he never wanted any of it in the first place.

fifty

The streets were different now in 1972 than they were in 1957. The brick buildings had grown taller, and now had flags and ribbons draped from them. The street was cobblestone, but now asphalt and spray paint and bodies writhing in pain and bootstomps in rhythm. The storefronts that had TV-sized radios and oven-sized TVs were but shattered panes and torn clothing. He couldn't see very far anywhere he looked, shoulder-to-shoulder-to-back-to-front, at least everyone was pushing in the same direction, like the current of the stream that carries the minnow. His tightly gripped red book and red scarf and white t-shirt turned red were held to his chest, his heart beating and pounding and aching, all in time with everyone else's.