Tuesday, November 27, 2007

starfruit

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There was a pretty girl named Meredith Beecham who worked in a second hand store somewhere next to a coffee shop in Philadelphia.

Meredith had dark brown hair, eyes that resembled fresh swimming springs with glints of sunlight shimmering through, which were pretty if she'd ever let them out, which she hardly ever did.

Meredith liked her job. It gave her the opportunity to guess the lives of others by the smell of things they left behind; to stick her nose in the yellow-paged-dog-eared-soft-cover stories; hands in the pockets of over sized suits, she'd wrap her arms around herself sometimes, rubbing rough tweed sleeves, the scent of faint cigars across her cheeks, fingering leather elbow patches, soft seams going everywhere under her slender stained and steady fingers.
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Meredith had a thing for black and white Fellini movies, strange fruits like kumquats, persimmons, and prickly pears; she loved feeling like she was on the verge of losing herself to a well-versed stranger at any moment.

If someone were to walk up to her in a bar, for instance, a crowded shopping center, park, convenient store, or coffee shop; if that person were to look her dead in the eyes and say something along the lines of:

"You are an exquisite formula, a rainbow stopping children dead on high street. The full circle of your darkly cast eyes festoons with raw privilege, such is your hold on me. When the delicate order is given I will tear into you, dark guttural hound, snarling lusciously. You will ask me to give it to you. I will make you beg. Precious need in your lips open quivering, when your naked beauty strikes me my god burned soul will take a ten count to recover, salaciously beating your unspoken needs, making sure that when we are both dreaming, it is of the very same thing,"

she would probably pass out a little, still standing, or sitting, and go with the person, dizzy, into whatever bathroom, backseat, or unorganized house, and let them have their way with her.

Meredith thought about this a lot, staring at walls, face in her hand, drooling, because she had a weakness for slightly absurd sexually romantic jargon, which was very specific and original, and a little disgusting; with the idea of someone seducing her into some state of dazed whimpering slavery and electrified madness.


She also had fantasies about being conquered, taken, and owned generously (if that makes sense). She could not be neglected unless she brought it upon herself to be neglected. She felt abandoned otherwise.

To be owned generously, for her, was to be owned graciously.

Which meant: she didn't mind the idea of seeing herself as some poetic stranger's purring bedside kitten, their toy, as long as they could make her mindless with words which were used and clustered into what seemed to be a second language of someone who exuded the demeanor of being exceptionally aware, or hyper-perceptive, and creatively ambitious.


To Meredith a touch of the divine was the greatest cause for curiosity, and more than enough warranted inertia for spark enticing physical indulgencies-also known as foreplay, which for the patient sort was quite the sport, according to back country poets, such as herself.

But what if the person was disgusting, revolting, old and hairy, with sticky magazines all over snot ragged hair carpet blood on walls, too much violence and abuse and incest as a child, what if they were a needled prophet with cold sores, a video-game-playing-stoner-pseudo-intellectual-with-terrible-hygiene?!

Tough titty for her is all she would say. An honest answer.


Meredith didn't dwell much on causes, or reasons. She didn't like to analyze the intentions of whoever might pursue and seduce her with their words, for the sake of preserving what seemed to her an inexplicable myth, defined, illustrated in her occasional banquets of exploration.

Hell in her mind was coming back to earth some clone of an animal who didn't even know it was an animal, standing around with other animals, replicas of each other eating grass or wild rabbits when it was time; and her mind would wander furthur, and wonder: if it would be worse to know exactly what kind of creature she was in a realm of creatures, the burden it would be, to be so limited within a range of comfort and mirrored familiarity.
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Sunday, November 18, 2007

holding

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Last night we (all of us) caroused, had a home style type dinner at a trendy place called the Woodland with a fake kitschy tree inside (growing up and out from the center through the roof); went to a hipster place called Sidebar where outside to smoke was infinity tables harboring tight black jeans wearing emo kid penguins looking anxious and pissed, channeling the word drone in my mind more than once.

Everything was very hip and cool and hip and deep and trendy and I played pool, and pee'd in the boy's room twice because the girl's line was long and stupid. I don't remember any of the conversations, but they happened in massive multitudes of assumed interesting, on levels of casual small talk, with no real heavy themes, nice.

Inventorywise, I drank a Maker's Mark on the rocks, three draft beers, a dirty gin martini, a 13 dollar half glass of pinot noir (by accident) and two glasses of gallon jug red wine before finally waking up this morning gasping from thirsty and corroded feeling. I had a Fresca.

Two hours later I woke up again, my teeth glazed with aspartame.

***
My mom called today to confirm Thanksgiving plans in Tennessee and while telling me about a peeping Tom incident which happened to her last week, I couldn't help but feel like a shit head for thinking the whole time, 'this would make a great story! No way, my life is so interesting!' Her story sounded something like:

"I was in the bathroom. I heard a dragging sound outside, like an animal dragging something (no shit!) so I turned out all the lights inside and turned the outside lights on and looked around the house after looking outside in the dark and seeing something under the window that wasn't supposed to be there (no shit!) I yelled 'WHO'S THERE!' and nothing. Then I walked closer and looked and it was a chair. Someone dragged a chair under the window. So I called your aunt, my sister, and she came over fast. We talked to the neighbors. We called the police. The police looked around the house. They found another chair pulled up to the living room window. They said he must have been there an hour, at least. They showed me how to pull the pin from David's (my dead step dad) automatic. Now, whenever I hear anything outside, I get the gun and yell 'WHO'S THERE!' and wave the gun at the window. The two policemen said there were thirty break-ins that they personally had to deal with last month from gang initiation rituals, but I think it's just a guy who parks his car and walks."

(My mom and I had a nice conversation after that, about gang violence from peer pressure in lower socioeconomic ghettos where parents are ambivalent crackheads, about overpopulation in general with rises in cost of living giving people anxiety.)

Don't mess with my mom. She's totally holding and ready to blow somebody up. She will yell at you and shoot you if she catches you in the window. I'm serious. She takes kickboxing too, and has a black belt. My mom drives a cornflower blue Lincoln Towncar which will roast you like beef. My mom will kick you in the throat and shoot you.
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Monday, November 12, 2007

running the course

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On Sunday, crammed in the back of my movie maker buddy's silver Saturn to check on a green screen location for a Buck Rogers/Barbarella type sci-fi project, scanning the buildings flash past on Guadalupe's main drag, we passed a Jiffy Lube with a sign that said: Now Hiring-Will Train; and I thought about it: fantasized the hard work, dirty fingernails, mechanic's frock with Bubba on the front pocket, the skills and experience I would acquire with a job like that.

I thought about making $7 or $7.50 an hour versus what I make now which is more than double that; didn't mind the idea of cutting back on expenses. Reformulating the would-be difference in a three month budget--if I cut back on new clothes, driving, a little food, and read the books I already had stacked everywhere, I'd be fine.


(Wha? Alcohol?...I don't think so. My wine and booze budget is the same as paying for fast Internet service to me: a total-luxury-boredom-numbing-heyday-escape-without-ever-having-to-leave-the-house-unless-you-feel-like-it luxury.){Some people meditate too.}

Within the ideals and glamourfication of stockpiling--I have plenty of clothes. Regarding food: I could be a few pounds lighter and still look healthy, so the less, the better. I have money saved in a rainy day novel writing piggy bank too, alongside an extra hunk of Swiss for Melbourne in the Spring as a grapepicker bunking on couches.


I've changed oil before. It's easy.

Dirty, but easy.

Twist, drain, wipe, twist, pour, and zoom zoom: another couple thousand miles of lubricated goodness for fluid mechanizations.

Three months is what I think I'll try; then it might be time to move on after that; but good, hard work, I am convinced, makes me a better person-in doses which aren't overwhelming, or monotonous.

Unlike others who say things like "we are going to die" and "we are fucked" I say why waste time acknowledging inevitability when we can exert the same energy into finding ways to be happy, surrounded by good people; by being a good person.

To me, happiness feels right. I'd rather dwell on that than declaring the fact that we're all doomed any day. But that's just me. I don't like to blatantly waste my time being nihilistic.


I know how to change brake pads too.

This helps me feel self-sufficient and tough.
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Sunday, November 11, 2007

day in Frisco

birds



sax guy



opium den



elevator



bobbleheads



co-pilot



pier

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

coffee

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I used the then term 'electric shithouse' today to describe a sense of pleasurable pain.

It didn't make sense to anyone but me, and there were complaints, and people asking, "wHY'D YOU DO THAT that makes NO SENSE, WHAT's a SHIThouse, and how CAN IT BE ELECTRIC?

I changed it once after that to 'electrified shithouse,' then to 'electrified shitstorm,' maybe finally. It describes a nerd's bloody knee after falling off a Segway. I liked electric shithouse. I thought it was cute.

Maybe I'll name a book of stories Electric Shithouse. Stories that will never make sense to anyone but me, and a few really intuitive crazy people.

I'll bury it in the dirt and water it and a nonsense tree will sprout, with fruit so tangy no one can eat it but me and my offspring and whoever I kiss a lot whose DNA I alter with survival-instinct-strengthening-sour-resistance-no-nonsense saliva.

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Today the girl in the kitchen with cold sores said, "On the phone my mom told me that I was beautiful both on the inside and out when I told her about dating a handicapped person."

"That's nice," I said, "My mom told me that men will love me, and that I should marry a rich one."

We both kind of laughed at that.

***
I haven't been getting enough sleep and it's giving me wrinkles more than the stress or booze or cigarettes.

I slept a lot yesterday and the wrinkles were gone; three weeks worth.

Now I'm fresh again to seduce your father if he is bored with his w/l-ife and can buy me a goat farm on a vineyard on another continent somewhere; even Africa. Maybe not Africa. But I'm serious about the goats. They are feisty and their eyes say so much of nothing in horizontal slits.

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A man who smelled of yeasty chum was nervous and asking me for coffee.

"Come meet me, coffee, anywhere, you can buy your own if that makes you comfortable, bring your boyfriend, coffee, I want to get to know you better, give me your phone number, you're interesting, you must be interested in me as more than a friend if you think I'm hitting on you, coffee."

The whole time I wondered who he must've rolled around in. Some not-that-great, I guess. Perhaps someone who feeds penguins at the zoo and soaks their feet in milk.

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The dark birds huddle on the power lines, fly in clustered circles, huddle, shit, huddle.

"Mama had a lotta babies," said the brain injured boy, driving himself to karate.

They want you to look up so that they can blind you in one eye, oblivious to suspicion of espionage, thinking only, "bugs, berries, shit, bird, air, air, air, egg," or more, "*** ^^^* * ^^* *^^ * * ^* *** ^^^**** ^***** * ^^ **^ ^^ * * *^^ * ^^^^*** ** ^^^ ****^^ ** ^ ^^^ *****^^^^*^** & ***^ ^***, " I thought.

I only understand a little bird though. I could be wrong.
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