THIS IS CURRENTLY BEING CONSTRUCTED AND IS INCOMPLETE
1207
The light hits the pavement in tones of yellow and pink. Cool, wet air embraces my nose, but this place is familiar and warm. The blue house seems only to absorb the pink from the streetlight to produce a faint lavender costume. Disguised or not, I know this place.
This place knows me.
I've shared so much of my life with this setting, this chair, this street. I've often felt that I've debased its serenity by sharing it with so many strangers. I've allowed so many men to meet her as strangers, become familiar and warm, and then leave again always as strangers. If these lavender planks spoke to anyone but me, what would they say? Would they reveal contradiction and uncertainty or speak of me as an old friend? I'm content with her keeping my anonymity.
She's not so different from me. She's kept different friends, portrayed different faces, and they've all left always as strangers. Perhaps I should ask her how she's kept standing after so many years with so much contradiction and uncertainty.
How do you do it? Do you feel anew with each new color of paint? Or do you simply feel old and recovered as I do with new clothes? What about inside? Do you feel empty though full? Do your imperfections define you? Or do you feel removed from all that?
This doesn't equal 4
He thought he knew her, and she thought she knew him. It could have worked out for a long time, had they not questioned it. But they did, like always, picking apart each piece to the core then going a little further. They'd even made a game of it, talking in metaphors, conceits, and sometimes math.
"Although you've not told me, I know one thing for sure and the rest is just detail." She meant that she knew he loved her, and he did. She didn't realize how important details were.
He did.
"I wonder if we're even talking about the same thing," he said. "I think we both enjoy this game of unknowing. As if saying the words would debase it in some way." He meant saying the words would debase it; the purity of new, undefined love. He knew that was the exciting part. For that matter, so did she.
October 16th
Abbey could have said anything or nothing. Instead, she sighed.
"I didn't want it to be like this," John said.
Abbey apathetically nodded and looked down at her feet. Her toes had turned bluish yellow with the unexpected cold, but she hadn't noticed. Will wearing flip flops be the death of me, she thought. "I didn't either," she mumbled as she walked off his balcony and to her car.
John said something, but the noise of cold ate it up.
Abbey got in her car and drew a line on the steering wheel. Three months and two days. Her relationship with John had lasted two days longer than her last.
She turned on the car, and cold air exploded from the vents. She slid off her flip flops, red lights popped on followed by white, she backed out of the parking spot and was gone.
No silhouette shrunk in the rear view mirror and no thought of being chased after crossed her mind.
She came to a jerky stop at the first red light with her feet close to frozen. At the fourth, and last, light, she realized she'd been driving in silence. She flipped on the radio. Static. Four more turns, and she was home. Her car barely warmed to a buzz and she stepped out into like cold.
Her house key creaked as it slid into the lock and the door opened to a rush of heat.
Home.
Beginnings
Aug 4th
::What are you willing to lie about?
::A lot.
::How we met?
::If it's necessary.
::Good.
July 21st
"It seems like we've only been talking about me, not that it's not flattering that you're interested, but how would you describe yourself? I want to know who you really are," John said.
"You couldn't know me from any description. If I was to describe myself I'd use adjectives, nouns, and half truths. If you want to think you know me, I can let you read some of my writing, but I fear you'll assume too much," Abbey said.
Jul 22nd
TITLE
Life is a series of small conquests. Each one as insignificant as the last. Our bodies don't age because of hard work and accomplishment, but because each day we strive less and understand futility more.
When our heads are tired of banging against life's wall, we die.
Thing's I've accomplished...
sitting, eating, sleeping, reading, writing, driving, tying my shoes, and smoking two packs a day.
All these things have become boring.
Thing I haven't accomplished...
Happiness.
Aug 4th
"If you're going to kill me, please do it now."
"Your hospitality exceeds expectations."
"I always strive to be the best at what I do."
Still outside the door, John extended his hand in the tradition of 'nice to meet you'. Abbey usually scoffed at such traditions, but excused his early transgression.
"Nice to finally put a face to your words."
"Does it really put things in perspective?" Abbey generally didn't treat strangers to such sarcasm, but was scared she'd fall in love with John.
Present
You might be thinking, "Why?" but don't worry.
Jul 14th
"If you can live a happy life, without me, then you should try."
See: Dec 16th
Smoke
It's like saying, "I put dirty things in my mouth and don't care about my body."
Nice to meet you.
My daddy always said, "There's no such thing as smokers, just suckers." Maybe he was right.
***
You sit and watch her expertly pull blue smoke into her fleshy lungs. Forget that they're probably black. You envy that cigarette pressed against her soft, pink lips. Marborol lights might bring up images of your wino mother, camels your alcoholic father. But through he smoke screen, it's just you and her. You hope for her lighter to run out of fuel or for her to fumble with a match long enough to need your assistance, but she doesn't. With one flick, her cherry glows bright and for a moment she's gone.
***
You can't remember the last time you saw his left hand empty. His sixth digit branded Parliament. He's stopped looking at you; he now looks through you as if you would soon dissipate and float away. "You know," he says as he takes a drag and then exhales a smoke screen. It doesn't matter what he says.
***
"If I'm willing to do this to myself, imagine what I'd be willing to do to you."
Artists
"That's a good line, you should write that down." He took the last sip of his beer and set the pint down on the stone top table.
"The coffee here sucks. Why do we always come here?"
"Good beer."
"Beer snob."
"Coffee snob."
She lit a cigarette and took another sip of the dark sludge, "Sometimes I feel like my whole life is nothing but a one liner."
"Oh, you're such the tortured artist. I'm gonna get another beer."
"Could you get me another cup of coffee?"
With a 'heh' he grabbed her cup and disappeared back into the bar.
I'm not an artist, she thought. I'm a writer and barely that. Jessica had been working on a novella for the past two years. At some point, she'd forgotten what was real and what was prose.
Erik returned and set her mug down with a clank. He had another pint of dark, syrupy liquid with caramel colored foam.
"I'm really glad you're back."
"I know, that bartender took forever."
Jessica shook her head, "I'm glad you're here."
Erik took a sip.
I didn't know
I didn't cry at his funeral. At the time, it seemed like one minute he was there and the next he was gone. I could have just been embarrassed.
I ran to the car immediately after i saw his coffin descend into the ground. I sat in the back seat holding my grandmother's handkerchief and cried. I was seven.
My parents didn't notice right away, not because they were bad parents, but because everyone at the funeral was giving my father their condolences.
My grandfather had a military funeral. I didn't know he'd been in World War II. I didn't know he was at the back of the lines working as a tank mechanic. I didn't know he'd married my grandmother on a three day reprieve. I knew that I missed him.
I'd had dinner with him only two weeks before. He'd always say the same thing, "I have a little story about a little goop. Who always licked his fingers and gobbled up his soup. One day he took his little knife and tried to eat his peas. They tumbled down his little chest and landed on his knees."
"Grandpa, I'm too old for that now; you should be saying that to Steven."
That Christmas, he'd given my little brother, Steven, a life sized big wheels. I got a Cinderella dress. I wasn't happy.
Looking back, I know he had an idea he was going to die soon; I'd had seven good years with him and my little brother only had four. I suppose he hoped my brother would remember him because of that little, red jeep.
That little, red jeep had a battery barely more powerful than a 9V. When it, too, died, a month later, my dad resurrected it with an actual car battery. He installed a light switch for power. It was either off or ON.
How did my father feel when he fixed that insignificant piece of plastic? He might have felt inadequate compared to my grandfather fixing tanks to keep people alive. Or did he feel that fixing the jeep would keep my grandfather's memory alive?
Now, sixteen years later, I'm not sure if that red plastic still exists somewhere, but I still have my little story about a little goop.
"What's wrong, Roro?" my mom asked as they appeared in the car with my little brother.
I was confused because during the service the preacher said, "It's always hard to deal with the loss of a loved one. Grieving is important. Do not be ashamed to cry over the loss of this great man."
I looked over at my dad and he had tears running down his cheeks. I held his hand, but I didn't cry. Maybe I thought I had to be strong for him, but I'm not sure.
Sitting in the backseat of my grandfather's old Chrysler, I was crying over his death, but also my missed opportunity to mourn during the service. I felt like I'd betrayed him. "I feel and scrapped my knew when I ran to the car."
I still don't know if my parents believed me; I hope they didn't.
About a month before he died, i knew something was wrong. Not with him, with my grandmother.
My grandmother was a mediocre painter, but to me she was Michelangelo. I didn't know why she'd started painting. I didn't know if she'd won any awards. I didn't know what Alzheimer's was. I knew that I was no longer allowed to let her put makeup on me, and I knew that she was no longer allowed alone in her studio. I didn't know why.
As a seven year old, there's a lot you don't know, but the things you pick up on are, at times, surprising.
Standing under the metal carport, rain trickling down, I heard my grandpa confess to my father, "She forgot who I was last night. Asked me why I was in her bedroom and where her husband was."
Suddenly, I knew everything I needed to know about Alzheimer's. My mom came up behind me and put her arms around my shoulders, "You can get in the car, sweety."
Sitting in the backseat of our brand new Jetta, I watched my dad embrace his father. I saw tears rolling down their cheeks and shortly after, my mom offered to drive.
When everyone was in the car, I didn't ask questions. I wondered if my grandmother would forget me too. Halfway home, I was sad that i didn't get to hug my grandpa goodbye.
I wouldn't get to hug him again.
Two weeks later, when i was told he had died, I said exactly what I was thinking, "What? I thought Grandma would die first. I didn't even know he was sick." I didn't know he had a liver condition. I didn't know my grandmother had been sent to a twenty-four hour care home a week prior, and I still can't imagine all the pain my grandfather must have gone through his last week.
Beautiful Disconnect
And it will come easy. There is only gently understanding; no hard, sharp, splitting edges. Only middle ground.
Those Insignificant Fights
And it only takes three, tiny words.
"Are you okay?"
Hate fades into something more like sadness. I'm not okay, but I won't tell you. I can't allow myself to be vulnerable in front of you who I hated a few phrases ago.
That's how I got here, on the floor int he dark, I opened up and now you've evidence against me.
"I'm fine." But I unintentionally wipe my eyes with my shirt sleeve. Surely you notice; maybe not so unintentional.
You ask whether you should turn out the light and then leave. As your footsteps fade, hate comes rushing back in; you are not close enough to fight it off with your 'are you okay's and 'everything will be alright's.
You must have seen me wipe my eyes, or heard the sniffle in my voice or the small cough beggin you to interrogate further.
How dare you leave me alone with my thoughts like this. Pick me up off the floor.
Small, Tiny, Important
I wait with terrible anticipation to hear your answer, but in my heart, I know you've already decided. Small, tiny things reveal the truth. Where will I be when your important moments happen? A birthday, a print show, your mother's death. I won't be the one by your side; I've never been. You've already made your decision. You were simply waiting on my permission. You've pushed me away; turned me into someone so different from you that you don't know me. Does that make it easier?
You're cute, Let's fuck
God, this was the last thing I wanted.
"I bet I'm the last person you wanted to see today."
Try this year.
"But listen, no hard feelings. Don't think about it another second."
She's not serious; girls don't really act like that. But this was coming from the girl who left me a "you're cute, let's fuck" letter the last day of the semester.
"Oh, I'd already forgotten." Not true. I'd thought about it almost every day of Christmas break. I assumed there was a catch; for an offer so incredible, there must have been a huge catch.
Fuck it, that's not why I didn't call her. I felt like a little kid on the playground after a girl kissed me for the first time. I wanted to run up and kick her, if only because she made me feel like a pussy. You're cute, let's fuck?! Who does that? It was incredibly cool, and something only a girl could get away with. I almost felt like a skeeze just considering it. Besides, a girl like that would probably eat me alive.
Then I completely blanked on her name, fuck. She sat down in the desk beside me. I came in halfway through her sentence, "-- Not to make things more awkward. But I'm completely blanking onyour name."
What? You're cute, let's fuck girl doesn't even remember my name? How many guys had she given that same note to? Does she have a couple on hand at all times, you know, just in case? Who does that?
"Eric. My name's Eric."
"Ah, yes, Eric. I'm Rachel, you know, in case you've forgotten." Then she winked at me. I wasn't sure if it was an 'of course you haven't forgotten' wink or a 'I realize you've forgotten' wink.
Our Act
I was four steps from the door and getting closer. I wasn't moving, but like in the movies, the door was closing in on me. An unavoidable exit. Of course, I wasn't ready to leave, not ready for my scene to be over, but the stage was dark and curtain was dropping.
No, it wasn't the end of the play; I wasn't the main character. I was a sidenote, a part for actors who can't act. The main character, the star, was in fact an actor; a very good one.
when the lights were on us, I thought our scene would go on forever. Then it ended abruptly.
Those Winters
The winters in Texas had changed, but did so so gradually that no one noticed.
Observer
Aaron was ashamed that all his best photographs were accidents. When a prospective buyer approached him to ask his motivation, he wanted to say, "It was a fluke of time and space," but he knew that wouldn't sell a print. People awnted to hear the romantisized version.
Aaron could tell you exactlyw hy the stars never aligned. He hated these photos. Friends tried to reassure him by calling these flukes, "happy accidents," but it didn't really help.
The gallery owner had advised him to title his photos, but Aaron couldn't do it without be sarcastically literal. If he had named them, it would be something very abstract experssionistic like "5 x 3 Greyscale ink on supergloss 100 cardstock." The gallery owner didn't think that would help sell, "People want a story. They want to run away into your scene."
Aaron had named one photo, but it's nothing you'd ever see in the gallery; it was nothing anyone would pay for. It was, in fact, indistinguishable to anyone who didn't already know what it was. It seemed to be a black field cut in half by a white object. It was so out of focus the foreground object could have been anything. It's name was The First Night.
Aaron kept it with him all the time. Only one other person knew about it.
Aaron lived alone in a one bedroom apartment. His bedroom was clinically white; he hadn't planned it. He had friend that he'd had forever. He no longer had anythign in common with them other than the fact that they'd been his friends since forever.
Though he didn't know it, his friends envied him. It wouldn't have made any different if he had.
Three years ago, he's stopped. Just stopped. He was no longer a participant in his own life, merely an observer. It wasn't entirely his fault, or else it wasn't a fault.
He had known love, and known love to fail. He knew it was him. He cared so much about making others happy, he did whatever it took to protect them. Many girls fell for him. Eventually he'd go so far out of his way to give them what they wanted that he'd lose himself.
Jessica knew this about him and he trusted her, though he never quite believed her.
He'd met Jessica when he needed her most. Initially that scared him. She was smart and understanding and always seemed to be one step ahead of him. Not to say he was slow, she just always knew what he really meant before he did. He never got used to it.
He was getting older and had just been laid off from his job. He had no idea what he'd do with his life. Yet, things always seemed to fall into his lap; maybe that's why he held such anamosity towards his happy accidents.
Jessica fell, very literally, for him one day in a parking lot. Aaron ran to help her up. That's who he was; he couldn't stand to see anyone in pain.
"It didn't hurt at all," she said as she brushed off her jeans.
She's too collected to fall, Aaron thought. But after getting to know her, he realized she often stumbled.
Their was the last story he romantisized. When he told it, he'd leave out her forwardness and down play his shyness. He never admitted that ... TBC
