| THIS IS A READ-ONLY ARCHIVE FROM THE SORABJI.COM MESSAGE BOARDS (1995-2016). |
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the gin and tonic sheltered under the cave of my fingers sweats onto the blonde wood table. i run my fingers down the slick glass, pulling the water into puddles, pushing the puddles around the tabletop. the ice cracks and shifts, the lime wedge sinking an inch. i lift the glass, clink it against its empty cousin, and swallow what liquid is left. more gin than tonic, i can give them that. i flick glass sweat at the big guy in the flannel shirt. he freezes; he looks at me with faux shock and then starts shrieking and waving his hands at me. i smile at him, at finally understanding some unit of conversation, some communication no matter how irrelevant. i tilt my empty glass in his direction, the inverse of a toast. i blow him a kiss. i push off from the table. walking proves less stable than sitting, but i develop a shuffling rhythm of knees lifting and feet falling. perhaps this is sauntering. i pat someone’s shoulder as i walk past. the bar bobs and weaves ahead of me. bodies are packed three deep, clots of conversation standing behind waving drink-seekers and the tilt headed conversations of the coveted bar-sitters. there is a step down to the bar area from the dining area. it is like stepping down into a slow, tropical river: hot and thick and nose-filling with cloying perfume and sweat musk. conversation rumbles steady and indistinct. i look towards the bathroom doors, the hallway clogged with drunken bodies. i pause to catch my breath before starting the slip and elbow towards the pisser. then, i see it. as if moses stood and called out, a clear pathway appeared in the crowd. a perfect coincidence of conversations shifting, drinks sought and drinks purchased, cocktail waitresses herding people in one direction, bathroom goers herding people in another. suddenly and clearly, a pathway opened before me, leading directly and purposefully to an empty barstool. an empty fucking barstool. i slipped down the path and sat down. i took a breath, looked to my left and right. no one claimed to be saving the seat. i caught the eye of a bartender and ordered a double knob creek. the girl on my left finishes tapping out a text message and flips her cell phone shut. i lean in towards her and ask her, “do you believe in god?” she looks at me, scanning my face. i imagine her processing what i said, trying to figure out if she heard what she thought she heard. at the same time i imagine she is gauging my looks, my face and my shave, the quality of my shirt, the diligence of my fingernail upkeep. “did you ask if i believe in god?” she asks. “i did,” i say. the skin between her eyebrows comes together, forms vertical lines. her eyes have hardened, her pupils dilated. “is that supposed to be a come-on?” she asks. “just a question,” i say. i look past her to the guy to her left. some backward hat kid, laughing crazily, pounding the bar with both fists. the guy to his laugh slaps him on the back and takes a serious gulp from a pint of beer. “you’re,” she says. she pauses, looking for the perfect way to describe what i am. “you’re, lame.” she says. she huffs and flips her cell phone open with a practiced, single handed maneuver. i turn to the girl to my right. she is staring into her cosmo, a smirk on her face. i instantly become beholden by two clear wishes: first, to be the cosmo, the focus of her attention; second, that i had turned right instead of left when i decided to talk to someone. “did you hear that?” i ask. “yes,” she says in the very same instant. “yes, you heard that?” i ask. “yes, i believe in god,” she says. my first wish becomes reality, her brown eyes fixed on me, catching me like pooling amber. i momentarily drop my mind. shuffling my hands on the bar to pick it up, to remember the conversation, to remember her response. i find my bourbon with my fingers and take a sip. “god?” i ask, “or, god-god?” she laughs. “i have no idea what that means,” she says. “i mean,” i say, “do you believe in god, a mysterious but unquantifiable force in the universe that exists but does not interfere directly with human existence. or is it the god god, the almightly, the creator of heaven and earth; the catholic god, the protestant god, the angry god of the jews?” “more the first, i guess,” she says. “but it is more complicated that that. and more simple. why are you asking about god?” “no one talks about god anymore,” i say. “it is some sort of californian faux pas to bring up religion. why the fuck shouldn’t we talk about god? i mean, i’m not interested in trying to convert anyone to anything.” “would you like to hear about my personal relationship with jesus christ?” she asks. she laughs. when she laughs i have no choice but to smile. “i’m kidding. do you believe in god?” “i do,” i say. “god?” she asks, “or god-god?” “just god,” i say. “does your god start wars?” she asks. “quite the opposite,” i say. “maybe we have the same god,” she says. i watch her swallow the end of her cosmo. i touch her shoulder with my right hand. she is warm and soft. “can i buy you a drink?” i ask. “i’m not going home with you,” she says. i smile. “not tonight,” i say. she smiles. i order another round. |
i had been dreaming of the old santa cruz apartment, a block off the beach. in the dream i was laying in silent repose on my white cloud duvet. warm sun filtered through cheap mini blinds and onto my chest. i was listening to the low roll and rumble of the ocean, blending it with my own hum and pulse, emptying my mind. succeeding in achieving some mental purity, some tranquil, unassuming ecstasy that i’ve never approached in the wakened world. then, the toilet flush. it crossed my mind first as an ocean roar, as a wave far larger than normal, as the swell of an oncoming storm, as something powerful or dangerous. the initial rush of the flush subsided and the toilet turned to the wet hiss of tank filling. the tapping pipes pulled me from the bed of then to the bed of now. of now, a toilet flushing. in the numb disorientation of half sleep i hear the float click off the stream of water into the tank. i feel the sheets warm on my arms and legs. my eyes open halfway. part of me expects to see the old santa cruz apartment, the tiny room, the dirty white walls. the disorientation rises and falls. my eyes clear slightly and she is standing naked in my bedroom doorway. standing, her arms at her sides, her palms flat on her thighs. she is watching me as if the opening of my eyes is the rise of the sun. her body goes from soft to distinct with the slip of sleep from my eyes. morning through the bedroom window casts its two brother squares: one on her, one on the wall. the square on her illuminates her like a little dress would cover her. a box of light from just above her nipples to nearly half way down her thigh. my mind turns briefly to speculation of angels. she tilts her head slightly. “should i get back in bed,” she asks, “or should i get out of here?” “please,” i say as i pull the covers back in invitation. she walks like she is comfortable in her skin. i roll what i remember of last night back, replaying the tape. she gets into bed and curls up next to me, her leg over mine, her head nestled against my chest. she is warm and soft and fits next to me perfectly. “that was the right answer,” she says. “i thought you said you weren’t going home with me,” i say. “i said i wasn’t going to sleep with you,” she says. i kiss her forehead and shrug slightly. “i don’t know,” i say. “but you did sleep, didn’t you?” “a little,” she says. for awhile i listen to her soft breath. i match my breathing to hers and my heart starts racing. she must be listening to my heart, with her ear over my ribcage. listening to it beat harder and harder. i kiss her forehead. her hair smells faintly of bar air and cigarettes. “do you like omelets?” i ask. “no,” she says. “damnit,” i say. “that’s my one breakfast trick.” “we’ll go to the tea room,” she says. “i’m buying.” the words stop. her breathing slows and i feel she is sleeping and i follow her. |
the record clerk handed me a three-by-five card and a number two pencil. i filled out the card with my basic information, name, address, birth date, social security number, mother’s maiden name. the record clerk took the card from me and told me this might take a little while. i told her i was going to go get a cup of coffee and then come back. “you can’t bring food or drink back into the record room,” she said. she was not looking at me when she spoke; she was reading my card. i am not sure she knew she was even speaking. when she turned and walked away i noticed white marks on the back of her brown blazer. like the marks a tailor would make. the records office was an old building with a marble floor and a wall of post-office boxes with brass doors. at one time it was a post-office, but now it was nothing. it was the records office. i pushed out through the revolving door and into the hundred-and-ten degree day. i turned left at the sidewalk and down a block to where i knew there was a coffee cart parked in the shade. a husband and wife team, recent transplants from seattle. they put out a little red sandwich board that said GOOD COFFEE and under a fern like insignia. the same fern is traced with espresso in the foam of your latte, if you get a latte. today i was going to get something iced. “iced coffee,” i said. “just black.” “you coming from the records office,” the wife asked. she was brewing the coffee in some sort of coffee device. they came from seattle, i deferred to their coffee judgement. they brewed every cup of coffee as it was ordered. not the most efficient thing in the world, but with their business flow it wasn’t hurting them. “yea,” i said. “how’d you know?” “i guessed,” she said. “you have that records office look to you.” i was not sure what to do with that comment, so i looked down and did nothing to continue the conversation. the tops of my black leather shoes had faint round stains on them, like dried droplets of water. i knelt down and rubbed at one with my thumb. it did not come off. “two dollars,” she said. i stood up quickly and momentarily spun in my head. i managed to dig in my pocket at the same time so i wasn’t just standing there with my eyes rolling back in my head. i do not think she noticed. maybe she did. i passed her two singles. she handed me a cup. “thanks,” i said. “good luck in the records office,” she said. “oh, and be careful.” “careful?” i asked. “yeah, they’re pretty strict about bringing beverages inside,” she said. “thanks,” i said. i took a big sip of the coffee and walked away. instead of heading back to the records office, i took a right and walked a block up the street to a little park i had noticed. the park was full of gravel paths and rose bushes. i walked towards the middle of the park and sat down on a bench. the coffee was good, just as advertised. i started humming to myself. “can’t do that here,” a voice next to me said. i looked quickly to my right. and old man sat next to me. everything about him was the same grey-brown as the weathered wood bench. i tried to think back and figure out if he had been sitting there and i just had not noticed, or if he had been somewhere else in the park and had crept up on me and sat down. “can’t do what?” i asked. “the humming,” he said. “we don’t hum here. we don’t sing or whistle, either.” “sorry,” i said. he patted my knee with a grey-brown hand. his fingers were knotted and gnarled, like old tree roots. “i don’t mind, son,” he said. “but not everyone feels that way.” for a split second every rose had a face. most of them were looking at me. “it won’t happen again,” i said, but he was gone. i looked around the empty park. my coffee cup held only ice, so i stood up and walked back to the records office. “good timing,” said the record clerk as i pushed through the revolving door. “i just found your record.” “lucky me,” i said. “come around to the side door,” she said. i walked over to the door she indicated and waited. in a moment she pushed open the door and beckoned for me to follow. we walked down a wood paneled hallway full of metal doors. each door had a little window crisscrossed with a wire grid. if the walls were white it would have felt like a sanatorium. it felt like a school hall. “you smell like the rose garden,” she said. “i drank my coffee there,” i said. “probably a mistake,” she said. she pushed open one of the doors, revealing a small, square room. in the center of the room was a small, square table and a single straight-backed wooden chair. she put a manila file folder down on the table. “you have fifteen minutes,” she said. she left me in the room, closing the door behind her. i sat down at the table and squared the file folder in front of me, with the tab along the top. on the tab was a white sticker with a green bar along the bottom edge, my name written in thick black ink, the number “47” written in pencil and circled. i had recently turned forty-seven, but that was probably a coincidence. on the upper right hand corner of file folder the number “47” was written again, also in pencil. below the “47” was today’s date and a time. i checked my watch, the time was about twenty minutes from now. inside the folder was four sheets of white paper. on the first sheet had been typed with a manual typewriter: “for fear you will be alone you do so many things that aren't you at all.” -brautigan the next three pages were blank, though the edges were turned and soft, as if the paper had been handled frequently. behind the last page was a rose petal, pressed and dry. i closed the folder and took a deep breath. this was not what i had expected. not at all. i stood and walked to the door. it was locked. i looked out the little window. the record clerk was standing there, her back to the door. i knocked gently. she turned and opened the door. “done?” she asked. “yes,” i said. i handed her the folder. she touched the folder but did not take it from me. “you still have a few minutes,” she said. “that’s ok,” i said. she took the folder from me and turned down the hallway, leading me out. i went straight for the revolving door, into the sun of the day. it was a short walk back to the park. i sat back down on the bench and closed my eyes. for a moment, i was in a dream: it was seventeen years ago. i was behind a girl, her ass curved into my hips, pushing back against me. with each thrust i made i could feel her fingers moving against my balls, vigorously working her clit. tiny droplets of sweat had formed between her shoulder blades, in the sweep of her dark, curly hair. i ran my finger down her slick spine, up the curve of the small over he back, into the crevice of her ass. when i could hold myself back no longer i felt the first orgasmic clench of her cunt. i let go, my head rushing, my eyes rolling back into my head. i opened my eyes into hundred-and-ten degree heat. the barest of breezes sighed across my face. i breathed deeply the scent of a thousand rose petals. my watch said there were two more minutes. i crossed my hands in my lap and waited. |
this wet world has stilled, momentarily; slowed gracefully and then stopped as if plunged spinning into honey, into pitch. we are, in our stillness, belly-flat on a wooden pier. silver wood worn and polished by bare feet and wind and rain. we lay with our arms crossed in front of us and our chins on our crossed arms. in the once wind swirled pond the maple leaves, red and yellow and orange, have stopped completely. the pond may as well be frozen; the arms of the willow hang limp and still. stillness, everything still. in the pond reflected the tree ringed sky, blue day and clouds stopped and seemingly melting; now falling, now easing, now melting. the sun holds its place in the sky. the sky, a frozen fluid. the air we have breathed like fish breathe water, from the day of our screaming births, stalled, thinned, so still. a newt, in liquid free fall, legs out, tail straight and locked behind it. slipping down, dispelling the reflected sky, into the pond’s night. in a moment i realize i have not breathed, and my sudden inhale restarts the world. bluegill tap the border of pond and sky, threaten chaos with ordered rows of concentric waves. of ripples, i laugh. the trees shiver in the refound breeze. you laugh, on your back now, drifting skyward into the wind pushed clouds. “we can’t be here,” you say. “these places don’t exist.” “do not exist,” i echo you. i turn so that i am on my back, i am next to you in your same sky. “something, spherical.” “something,” you say. the clouds slow, expand as if breathing in. in the distance the wind is coming through the trees. in all distances, all directions, the trees stutter with the wind; coming, the wind, closer, closer. in all directions the wind moves through the trees. “spherical,” you say. the clouds push together, the wind in all directions, pushing towards a point directly above us. the clouds push together until they are one cloud, absolutely round. “this is an aberration,” i say. i stand on the pier, facing the pond. the light dramatic, the great white sphere reflected in the rippled surface. the bluegill pecking frenetically at the border between fluids. “just an anomaly,” you say. you are standing now, standing next to me. from the center of the pond the newt is rising; at the surface of the pond the newt unfolds golden butterfly wings, wet and translucent. with slow wing flaps the newt rises into the air before us. the thin line of newt mouth splits, first a line of fire and then a gaping and fiery hole, newt jaw slung slack and then elongated. the fiery hole growing, swallowing the newt, swallowing the sky. then night and not-night. blackness. absence. shhhh. the world is not what it was, child. it is not a place of men and cities. it is not a place of rocks and trees, of mountains and lakes, of oceans of jungles of life. the world is gone, child. that which was out of phase is no longer such; all energy has returned to the one wave. it is pure, it is pure; and there is now nothing. and nothing is everything. shhhh. i shiver in a cold bed. the jagged hole in the window, the hole the size of my two knuckles, spills the night air into this room. through the spidered window i see the spilled milk sky full of stars. there is no moon, only the myriad myriad myriad tips of silver arrows. a slow breeze pushes through the douglas fir. i feel around the bed; i feel alone. i am in a loft in a wooden cabin in the douglas fir and madrone woods. below me mice feet scamper through the cabin cupboards and across the counter. the propane pilot light glows cool and blue somewhere within the stove. i take a deep breath, sigh. i could climb down the ladder and turn on the burners. the room would heat quickly. i ball myself up under the blankets, hugging my knees to my chest. if i do not move, if i concentrate, i am nearly warm. i am comfortable. it is a matter of convincing. somewhere, i fall back asleep. the earth spin carries the douglas fir and madrone forest into the light of the sun. energy added, atoms excited, the fluid above warms. the sun rays through the cracked window and upon my face. i wake. i feel around the bed; i feel alone. outside the window the trees steam in the heat of the sun. the steam rises to the sky. clouds surf on the waves of the wind. the world exists; i feel alone. i climb down the ladder and into my socks and jeans and sweatshirt. the kettle has water. i turn a burner to high and wait for the flash of blue propane flame. the kettle begins to warm. off the back deck i piss steaming into the brush. inside again, i sit at the table. i take a sheet of paper from the stack and set it in front of me. from the cigar box i take a number two pencil and set it on the paper. i place my palms flat on the table to either side of the paper and take a deep breath. the kettle boils. i fix a cup of spearmint tea. a scrub jay bounces along the rail of the back deck. i slowly finish the tea. sitting, pencil in hand, eyes closed, mind pushed into a tiny room, into a cupboard in the tiny room, into a small box in the cupboard, into a smaller box in the small box, smaller box, smaller box, gone; i write: the oxford electric bell two dry pile batteries connected in series two brass bells one connected to each battery a suspended clapper rings the bells with each ring the clapper is charged by the battery and electrostatically repelled. built in 1840 and has rung for over 150 years using a single set of batteries of unknown composition. shhhh. i wake in the sunshine on smooth wood. the blue sky fills eyes i rub with my sunwarm arm. wispy puff clouds slip silently from left to right. a breeze rustles through warm fir needles. the spring gurgles and feeds the pond. the world smells like trees and water. i feel around the pier and find your hand. “we had the strangest dream,” you whisper. “i don’t ever want this to end,” i whisper. “everything ends,” you whisper. “nothing ends,” i whsiper, as softly as i can breathe. “everything ends,” you whisper, “nothing ends.” “we had the strangest dream,” i whisper. |
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my point is, i had a little hiccup of anxiety last night. but so mild, just a little buzz through my body. and i thought to myself, i'm happy for her. she's not with me anymore. this is ok. not to mention, the whole line of thought about what this new person has that i didn't have. even when i was the one who initiated the breakup, i size myself up against the new person and try to figure out where i am insufficient. but this time, it is easy: vagina. i don't want a fucking vagina. not attached to me, anyway. it's a piece of cake to bake a pretty cake. |
lesbian girl [do do-do do] lez bein' girl [do do-do do] oh, don't you see she don't want me lesbian girl [do do-do do] well she don't like my penis [do do-do do] and she don't want it near [do do-do d0] what's with the malice for my phallus? lesbian girl [do do-do do] i think it was very healing. |
and well behind me, and really i'm fine tonight, but i find myself avoiding going to bed. even this, writing now, is one more step that is me not going to bed. not going to that place where it is just me and my mind. and not because i'm going to have a panic attack. because i won't: this is a totally different situation. but because i have an irrational fear of heading to the me and my mind time after hearing about a girl i'd trusted has been eating snatch. or some other combination of the variables of this current situation. regardless, i'm now experiencing this kind of meta-anxiety; i'm anxious about potentially having an anxiety attack. but it is all mild, and i'm fine, and not really worried about anything, but just kind of sitting back, with several species of small furry animals, gathered together in a cave, and grooving with a pict. i'm such a penis. |
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turns out my ex at the very least attempted to cheat on me while we were together. three in a row. score. |
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go read poetry in some open mic coffee house. knock up some pretty alternative chick. and then tell her you'll fucking kill her if she has an abortion. i spend all my sex life trying to not have a kid. you think i'm going to end up like you wishing i had one? i have this idyllic vision of love and family. i think it is impossible. i want to have joan of arcadia problems. this other shit is just so cliche. |
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quite literally. |
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but then, there is the slip-slide of the mind. i don't trust i'll always be as coherent as i am now because i am no where near as coherent as i was then. i wonder how much earlier than my peers i will start to fade, the semantic paraphasia cropping up more and more, the illogicality and tangentiality, derailment and distractible speech. i have no expectations of being functional when i'm even as old as you. actually, i have no expectations of becoming as old as you. it is a mistake to tell your mother you expect to die when you are forty-seven. she does not understand it with the same patent logic that you do. i guess the nineteen minutes flat has dawned on me recently. that the wage of my life will need to be more than awesome fucks and other bacchanalian debauchery. fifteen years, man, what is that? five minutes? in what way do i want to leave my mark on this world? through words on a page? or genes in a kid? or maybe in the abscence of any significant mark at all? |
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i mean, i don't have any kids that i know about. |
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