scene – movie theater balcony – night
four of us, like a double date and i am sharing the seat with a man i have just met, clinging to him. it is a horror movie and i am scared in a way i haven’t felt in years. the childish sort of fear that exists before reason, a helpless sort of terror.
on the screen, there is a blonde getting out of a pool. she is topless and I think or say that she has been topless in every movie as of late, noting the combination of judgment and jealousy in my tone. then in the water, something resembling her twin, but with milky eyes, and is that a tail? and then she is consumed by this porpoise creature and it stands up in the water almost levitating and it is a porpoise body with arms and no head at all.
i climb into his lap completely, turning my head so that it is buried in the hollow part of his chest, where the ribcage meets, closing my eyes so tight i see red dots and tv static. and then i am falling, somewhere inside of him, i am falling, flailing, looking for some kind of saving, some kind of hold. and i grab onto the lowest rib, the bottom rung.
and when i feel myself slipping, i blame him for burying me so deep, blame myself for ignoring the danger i could see in his eyes.
i do not like this feeling. this blindness. and lately it feels like i am toeing the edge of a cliff, tossing stones over the edge, listening for echoes.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Saturday, October 23, 2010
the weight
a beachtown. he pulled someone from the water earlier that night. i had seen it from the boardwalk, not entirely sure what i was watching, except that he ran in with all of his clothes on so it must have been important. she was drowning, trying to drown, succeeding. and he carried her out, arms behind neck and knees, the way you're supposed to post-rescue. she was small and limp, just a shadow barely covering the width of his chest.
he didn't know that i saw. and i was too scared to keep watching.
later in the beach house, we are sitting around a long dinner table. he is sitting to my right, facing away and i reach out and grab his arm, like getting the attention of a friend. he is cold, the kind of cold you feel when you can't get completely dry. and i can tell by the way he is looking at me that i have left my hand there too long. i stammer for words but they escape me. i smile, still holding his arm i smile- i know you're a hero, even if no one else here does, hoping he can read my mind. he smiles back, or at least i think he smiles back - it's the faintest upturning of lips that it's hard to say for sure.
he turns back to our host, i retract my hand, wanting our interactions to mean so much more than they do.
he didn't know that i saw. and i was too scared to keep watching.
later in the beach house, we are sitting around a long dinner table. he is sitting to my right, facing away and i reach out and grab his arm, like getting the attention of a friend. he is cold, the kind of cold you feel when you can't get completely dry. and i can tell by the way he is looking at me that i have left my hand there too long. i stammer for words but they escape me. i smile, still holding his arm i smile- i know you're a hero, even if no one else here does, hoping he can read my mind. he smiles back, or at least i think he smiles back - it's the faintest upturning of lips that it's hard to say for sure.
he turns back to our host, i retract my hand, wanting our interactions to mean so much more than they do.
Monday, September 13, 2010
the exodus
we are wandering around the complex where we live. it is night, but worse, the brown kind of night. like the desert. like abandonment. we are a pack of survivors.
near the house, there is a man, a beggar - we have often ignored him, or pretended to. tonight, he is yelling like we owe him something. trying to follow us into the house. cursing. we close the front door and it almost hits his nose he is following so close. we can see that he has sores along his face. he is banging on the door. catie, the oldest of us goes to the door and, though we plead with her not to, opens it. it is less because she is kind and more to prove she is the decision maker. her voice is what counts. as soon as the man enters, the sores on his face seem worse. i offer to call an ambulance for him. he says no. catie says no. she feeds him in the kitchen, i sneak into another room and dial 911.
later, we are on a school bus - there are many of us and we are trying to get to safety many towns over. one by one the people on the bus are starting to change - their faces spreading with sores, their eyes going cold, crooked as they are consumed by something distinctly not human. it's spread by direct contact and many of the kids are trying to rub their head on mine as though the goal is to spread as far as possible and they are being driven by this.
i get a hammer from the bus driver, who won't stop until we get there. here is worse than there he somehow knows. i am kicking people in the head, hammering them, using the fork of the hammer to remove chunks of flesh from their face. they are laughing. aside from this, the bus is remarkably well behaved.
we pull over to pick up a hitchhiker. it is raining and i am at the front, standing in the door, thinking about making a break for it. the girl in the front seat, still a girl, looks at me with pity as if to warn i'll never make it out there. when the door opens, i tell this roadside man that we are all full up and shut the door, watching him turn away. the rest of the bus - the survivors - yell to let him on, intending to throw him to the others. better you than me. i reopen the door and call to him. wait, i think we can find room and let him shuffled past me to board. and the driver gives me a look of mild condemnment. he is judging me and i deserve it.
and later, a compound where a giant rhinocerous is running around a school gymnasium. it is both terrifying and the punchline to a joke that no one seems to be able to tell right.
near the house, there is a man, a beggar - we have often ignored him, or pretended to. tonight, he is yelling like we owe him something. trying to follow us into the house. cursing. we close the front door and it almost hits his nose he is following so close. we can see that he has sores along his face. he is banging on the door. catie, the oldest of us goes to the door and, though we plead with her not to, opens it. it is less because she is kind and more to prove she is the decision maker. her voice is what counts. as soon as the man enters, the sores on his face seem worse. i offer to call an ambulance for him. he says no. catie says no. she feeds him in the kitchen, i sneak into another room and dial 911.
later, we are on a school bus - there are many of us and we are trying to get to safety many towns over. one by one the people on the bus are starting to change - their faces spreading with sores, their eyes going cold, crooked as they are consumed by something distinctly not human. it's spread by direct contact and many of the kids are trying to rub their head on mine as though the goal is to spread as far as possible and they are being driven by this.
i get a hammer from the bus driver, who won't stop until we get there. here is worse than there he somehow knows. i am kicking people in the head, hammering them, using the fork of the hammer to remove chunks of flesh from their face. they are laughing. aside from this, the bus is remarkably well behaved.
we pull over to pick up a hitchhiker. it is raining and i am at the front, standing in the door, thinking about making a break for it. the girl in the front seat, still a girl, looks at me with pity as if to warn i'll never make it out there. when the door opens, i tell this roadside man that we are all full up and shut the door, watching him turn away. the rest of the bus - the survivors - yell to let him on, intending to throw him to the others. better you than me. i reopen the door and call to him. wait, i think we can find room and let him shuffled past me to board. and the driver gives me a look of mild condemnment. he is judging me and i deserve it.
and later, a compound where a giant rhinocerous is running around a school gymnasium. it is both terrifying and the punchline to a joke that no one seems to be able to tell right.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
the trade-off
Your life ends in a blinding white gymnasium of a room. I have been there before and know how to part the rain as it falls above only you. Gently, palms down thumbs out like brushing hair from your face. Quick, palms curled like parting curtains.
I am conducting a grand orchestra of failure, but don’t know it yet.
The storm only lasts a while I say and you nod not really listening, peeling off wet clothes and leaving them behind you like disappearing breadcrumbs. Nothing lasts too long at the end, I follow, except, y’know, the end.
There is a running tally of all that’s going on, the emails you’re missing, the conversations happening in your absence, a way of keeping track how the world moves without you. And if you have been here before, as I have, you can opt out, take meetings to prove that there is still something left for you to do.
I have an appointment mid-afternoon and i have seen how it plays out – an escape route through the underground. above us, mosquitoes the size of torpedoes frozen in blocks of something more permanent than ice or concrete. It’s safe to come out.
You are scared, or maybe I want to believe that you are and need me somehow because when you kiss me, I let you, I lose track of time. And it doesn’t feel good or bad, doesn’t feel anything and I’m overcome with this profound sadness because in my head I had imagined it better, imagined it more.
And the day moves on and I am looking at the clock, watching the room morph from one stage to another, the lights dimming, nearly extinguished, one eye on where the door would be. You have to make a choice, you tell me and I look at you with a soft sort of outrage, the edges dulled by the disappointment that you can’t realize I already have.
I am conducting a grand orchestra of failure, but don’t know it yet.
The storm only lasts a while I say and you nod not really listening, peeling off wet clothes and leaving them behind you like disappearing breadcrumbs. Nothing lasts too long at the end, I follow, except, y’know, the end.
There is a running tally of all that’s going on, the emails you’re missing, the conversations happening in your absence, a way of keeping track how the world moves without you. And if you have been here before, as I have, you can opt out, take meetings to prove that there is still something left for you to do.
I have an appointment mid-afternoon and i have seen how it plays out – an escape route through the underground. above us, mosquitoes the size of torpedoes frozen in blocks of something more permanent than ice or concrete. It’s safe to come out.
You are scared, or maybe I want to believe that you are and need me somehow because when you kiss me, I let you, I lose track of time. And it doesn’t feel good or bad, doesn’t feel anything and I’m overcome with this profound sadness because in my head I had imagined it better, imagined it more.
And the day moves on and I am looking at the clock, watching the room morph from one stage to another, the lights dimming, nearly extinguished, one eye on where the door would be. You have to make a choice, you tell me and I look at you with a soft sort of outrage, the edges dulled by the disappointment that you can’t realize I already have.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
the shift
A soccer match where I am playing all my elementary school friends all grown up. They are razzing my team before hand but I am tough and confrontational and tell them where im coming from – challenge them to fight.
In the game we score the first goal off a penalty kick when someone is unapologetically pulling my arm down while I have the ball within the 18yard line. Someone else takes the kick before I know whats going on. The second is another direct kick from farther out, when a girl I used to be friends with falls on me and then when I get up, deliberately falls on me again. The ref has been watching these things, I am controlling the game. I take the shot from the right side of the field and it curves into the left corner. No one applauds, we just run back to our positions. I drop back to stopper, I had been playing striker and instruct my team to play defensively. Our left wing is from the other side and she has her bags with her on the field, having to leave early. We put her there because that is where she can do the least damage.
Suddenly the field changes and in order to score a goal, we have to kick it into a large fish tank at the bottom of a hill. One of my teammates goes to the bottom, right by the tank and bounces the ball up to me against the glass. I am at the top of the hill and can barely see where I’m shooting for since theres a wall between me and the goal. It is like a game of tennis where all I can do is return the ball and hope for the best. On the fourth try I get it in and the game is over.
The field is set up between city blocks and there are no spectators, just buildings. I have to ride in a canoe with one of my opponents, a good looking man who I knew as a boy but do not remember. He is rowing and congratulating me. We are talking about music and I invite him to jam later, because this version of me plays guitar.
There is a bus ride home where we drive through my old neighborhood. Everyone behind me talks about the changes to the streets. I have my headphones on and am actively not participating in the conversation, but no one seems to mind.
In the game we score the first goal off a penalty kick when someone is unapologetically pulling my arm down while I have the ball within the 18yard line. Someone else takes the kick before I know whats going on. The second is another direct kick from farther out, when a girl I used to be friends with falls on me and then when I get up, deliberately falls on me again. The ref has been watching these things, I am controlling the game. I take the shot from the right side of the field and it curves into the left corner. No one applauds, we just run back to our positions. I drop back to stopper, I had been playing striker and instruct my team to play defensively. Our left wing is from the other side and she has her bags with her on the field, having to leave early. We put her there because that is where she can do the least damage.
Suddenly the field changes and in order to score a goal, we have to kick it into a large fish tank at the bottom of a hill. One of my teammates goes to the bottom, right by the tank and bounces the ball up to me against the glass. I am at the top of the hill and can barely see where I’m shooting for since theres a wall between me and the goal. It is like a game of tennis where all I can do is return the ball and hope for the best. On the fourth try I get it in and the game is over.
The field is set up between city blocks and there are no spectators, just buildings. I have to ride in a canoe with one of my opponents, a good looking man who I knew as a boy but do not remember. He is rowing and congratulating me. We are talking about music and I invite him to jam later, because this version of me plays guitar.
There is a bus ride home where we drive through my old neighborhood. Everyone behind me talks about the changes to the streets. I have my headphones on and am actively not participating in the conversation, but no one seems to mind.
Monday, January 4, 2010
the reaction
scene - indoor hotel balcony - early evening
we are sitting at a bar, my friend and i. we are half celebrating, half mourning the success of a scheme, having made a business of diy prayer beads. we have a collection of charms that people have wanted to incorporate into their design, each with a meaning, each with a ghost. we are feeling guilty and trying to talk ourselves, each other, into believing we are doing something good.
there is a man in a suit walking a flight below us. the floor is round and polished and his footsteps echo against them. when the sounds stop we look up and he is there, offering us something we don't want. he is tall. handsome. mysterious. he is everyone we ever locked eyes with on the subway, he is no one we've ever met.
we giggle.
he starts talking to us and we listen for traces of an accent. he is some mix of farm and city grown. he is impossible to place. this is just a way to make some extra money he says really i work in television. me too! i exclaim perhaps too excited and my friend rolls her eyes and turns back to her cocktail.
he asks for my number and stands to the side. i pull a cocktail napkin off a stack and start writing my name, but it doesn't come out right. i pull another and another, each time giving myself a new name, slightly off, slightly wrong. i am panicking. my friend is laughing at me. it has been far longer than it takes to write a name and number.
he thinks we're toying with him, deciding on a fake name or number and he comes over. nevermind bitch! he yells this or something like it, where it stings and the words are immediately forgotten, soaked up into your skin. it feels like failure.
we are sitting at a bar, my friend and i. we are half celebrating, half mourning the success of a scheme, having made a business of diy prayer beads. we have a collection of charms that people have wanted to incorporate into their design, each with a meaning, each with a ghost. we are feeling guilty and trying to talk ourselves, each other, into believing we are doing something good.
there is a man in a suit walking a flight below us. the floor is round and polished and his footsteps echo against them. when the sounds stop we look up and he is there, offering us something we don't want. he is tall. handsome. mysterious. he is everyone we ever locked eyes with on the subway, he is no one we've ever met.
we giggle.
he starts talking to us and we listen for traces of an accent. he is some mix of farm and city grown. he is impossible to place. this is just a way to make some extra money he says really i work in television. me too! i exclaim perhaps too excited and my friend rolls her eyes and turns back to her cocktail.
he asks for my number and stands to the side. i pull a cocktail napkin off a stack and start writing my name, but it doesn't come out right. i pull another and another, each time giving myself a new name, slightly off, slightly wrong. i am panicking. my friend is laughing at me. it has been far longer than it takes to write a name and number.
he thinks we're toying with him, deciding on a fake name or number and he comes over. nevermind bitch! he yells this or something like it, where it stings and the words are immediately forgotten, soaked up into your skin. it feels like failure.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
the take back
scene - midtown diner - late-afternoon
i am with my cousin, surrounded by tourists and commuters. i ask him things like do you have a girlfriend? and how is school? (no, fine) bringing the coffee mug to my lips at every questionmark reminding myself that this is what older cousins are supposed to ask.
i am older and feeling even older still. when i was your age there was no internet i exaggerate. i start sentences with i remember when you... and he brings a hand to his forehead, wishing people would stop telling these stories.
and he wants to know "how do you think about those times, when you were in high school?" and i get the far away look of someone who both loves and hates the question. i will never be able to answer it right. when i think about it, it feels like it was someone else's life, and this is true mostly. my memory has warped the details, the important parts and frankensteined the pieces into a monster that is nothing like it really was.
the thing about being i teenager, i say with some authority, is that everything seems so much more important than it is. everything has this urgency to it. i list this as progress, but in truth it is what i miss most. the fire, the passion, the feeling of the entire world expanding, contracting, breathing with you.
it's the sort of thing that fades when you get older. your perspective changes and you just sort of start seeing everything on a different scale. the words are halfway out, tumbling from my lips, too late to take back and even as i'm saying them, i feel ridiculous telling him this. pretending to be worldly and wise. his father has just passed away.
i am with my cousin, surrounded by tourists and commuters. i ask him things like do you have a girlfriend? and how is school? (no, fine) bringing the coffee mug to my lips at every questionmark reminding myself that this is what older cousins are supposed to ask.
i am older and feeling even older still. when i was your age there was no internet i exaggerate. i start sentences with i remember when you... and he brings a hand to his forehead, wishing people would stop telling these stories.
and he wants to know "how do you think about those times, when you were in high school?" and i get the far away look of someone who both loves and hates the question. i will never be able to answer it right. when i think about it, it feels like it was someone else's life, and this is true mostly. my memory has warped the details, the important parts and frankensteined the pieces into a monster that is nothing like it really was.
the thing about being i teenager, i say with some authority, is that everything seems so much more important than it is. everything has this urgency to it. i list this as progress, but in truth it is what i miss most. the fire, the passion, the feeling of the entire world expanding, contracting, breathing with you.
it's the sort of thing that fades when you get older. your perspective changes and you just sort of start seeing everything on a different scale. the words are halfway out, tumbling from my lips, too late to take back and even as i'm saying them, i feel ridiculous telling him this. pretending to be worldly and wise. his father has just passed away.
Monday, December 28, 2009
the standout
scene: small town thrift store - mid-afternoon
the place is laid out like a department store, with many four sided mini-racks of shirts. the entrance is behind me. i have never been in this town before. i am just passing through.
a forty something woman with short curly blonde hair and glasses attached to a chain searches through the same rack as me and i slow my pace to avoid contact.
there is a row of tie dyed soccer jerseys, as though a whole team had turned them in. i search through each, looking for the luckiest number, the funniest name. a tall blonde boy (a boy, not a man) comes up behind me - i am holding kavic, number 9 - that's the best one he says and somehow i know it was his.
are you swedish he asks, which is the most ridiculous thing a person could ask me.
i shake my head no.
oh, you should be swedish.
"what is exactly is the process for that?" i ask and this kills him.
he laughs and laughs, good-naturedly, for far too long and i stand there mostly pleased with myself, waiting for him to stop. when he finally does, we just stand there, staring at each other from four feet apart, not knowing where to go from here.
the place is laid out like a department store, with many four sided mini-racks of shirts. the entrance is behind me. i have never been in this town before. i am just passing through.
a forty something woman with short curly blonde hair and glasses attached to a chain searches through the same rack as me and i slow my pace to avoid contact.
there is a row of tie dyed soccer jerseys, as though a whole team had turned them in. i search through each, looking for the luckiest number, the funniest name. a tall blonde boy (a boy, not a man) comes up behind me - i am holding kavic, number 9 - that's the best one he says and somehow i know it was his.
are you swedish he asks, which is the most ridiculous thing a person could ask me.
i shake my head no.
oh, you should be swedish.
"what is exactly is the process for that?" i ask and this kills him.
he laughs and laughs, good-naturedly, for far too long and i stand there mostly pleased with myself, waiting for him to stop. when he finally does, we just stand there, staring at each other from four feet apart, not knowing where to go from here.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
the reconstruction
We are taking part in a reality show of sorts, holed up in the wrong side of town where each person has a tiny room with no windows. My teammates consist of 2 girls who are working on our project all hours of the night and will not let me have any part of it. they are secretive and cruel and when I ask the head of this competition how much of this work is allowed to be done on our own time, they shoot daggers from their eyes at me. We hold a meeting on something resembling a porch, elevated, one room over from the living space. It overlooks the parking lot and when we see the owners cherry red sports car pull in we all scatter like pillbugs when the rock’s been pulled away.
I head for my car, this car that is my own contraption, made of cardboard and wire but still functioning somehow, for as long as I don’t give it too much thought. It takes the turns hard.
And the boss spots me, asks me to move his car to the next lot over, which I do and my father sees me parking it there. He is not my real father, but rather the screw up type of man who squanders his children’s hard work with his own repeated mistakes. He wants to borrow the car, he needs to. We are two miles from the center of town and it is a straight shot. I don’t plan on returning so I say alright. Be careful, I warn, and though I do not accompany him, I know that the windshield will end up spiderwebbed. There will be bullet holes from people mistaking the driver and this is the sort of thing that is not necessarily his fault, but will be.
This place is an island and though it is Astoria it looks and feels like northern Long Island, around Huntington, where I have gotten lost so many times. I am meeting with someone on his deck and I am telling him about a story I was writing – something about local Spanish or Italian gangs, people who wear zoot suits.
And a scene in a school gym where I am 10 years old and everyone is pairing up for a dance class I have organized in part because I am in love with my best friend, who is in love with someone else, a wretched girl who preens and pouts all day. I pair them up together anyway, because it is the right thing to do.
And later, I am on the subway, with a camera, fully grown, my shoulders sunburnt doing pull ups on the bars while I talk to my crew about the idea of passing for someone or something other than what you are.
This is what I am talking about in my deck interview. The man I’m speaking to has charcoal skin with gray undertones and a young boy sitting with him. The air is swampy and when I take off my blazer it barely helps things. Don’t dress like that around here, he says, they will confuse you for the cast. In the distance I see the zoot-suit-ed stars. What do you write he wants to know and I tell him everything and he raises an eyebrow, interested not suspicious. And I begin to tell him that there are very few things in this world I care enough about to explore and I am about to start listing them off when a group comes over and starts setting the table.
My father, the real one this time, is at the table. They are serving beignets and I lean next to him and wonder if this is where his friends had come not too long ago. It is the only place I’ve heard of in Astoria that serves these things. But they are blonde and Nordic and would not last long here, as the conversation reveals. I am allowed to stay because I am dark eyed and tanned dark enough to facilitate the illusion that I belong, even if they know better. They ask the countries that compose my heritage and laugh when I tell the truth, announcing their superiority.
It is a strange place.
I head for my car, this car that is my own contraption, made of cardboard and wire but still functioning somehow, for as long as I don’t give it too much thought. It takes the turns hard.
And the boss spots me, asks me to move his car to the next lot over, which I do and my father sees me parking it there. He is not my real father, but rather the screw up type of man who squanders his children’s hard work with his own repeated mistakes. He wants to borrow the car, he needs to. We are two miles from the center of town and it is a straight shot. I don’t plan on returning so I say alright. Be careful, I warn, and though I do not accompany him, I know that the windshield will end up spiderwebbed. There will be bullet holes from people mistaking the driver and this is the sort of thing that is not necessarily his fault, but will be.
This place is an island and though it is Astoria it looks and feels like northern Long Island, around Huntington, where I have gotten lost so many times. I am meeting with someone on his deck and I am telling him about a story I was writing – something about local Spanish or Italian gangs, people who wear zoot suits.
And a scene in a school gym where I am 10 years old and everyone is pairing up for a dance class I have organized in part because I am in love with my best friend, who is in love with someone else, a wretched girl who preens and pouts all day. I pair them up together anyway, because it is the right thing to do.
And later, I am on the subway, with a camera, fully grown, my shoulders sunburnt doing pull ups on the bars while I talk to my crew about the idea of passing for someone or something other than what you are.
This is what I am talking about in my deck interview. The man I’m speaking to has charcoal skin with gray undertones and a young boy sitting with him. The air is swampy and when I take off my blazer it barely helps things. Don’t dress like that around here, he says, they will confuse you for the cast. In the distance I see the zoot-suit-ed stars. What do you write he wants to know and I tell him everything and he raises an eyebrow, interested not suspicious. And I begin to tell him that there are very few things in this world I care enough about to explore and I am about to start listing them off when a group comes over and starts setting the table.
My father, the real one this time, is at the table. They are serving beignets and I lean next to him and wonder if this is where his friends had come not too long ago. It is the only place I’ve heard of in Astoria that serves these things. But they are blonde and Nordic and would not last long here, as the conversation reveals. I am allowed to stay because I am dark eyed and tanned dark enough to facilitate the illusion that I belong, even if they know better. They ask the countries that compose my heritage and laugh when I tell the truth, announcing their superiority.
It is a strange place.
Monday, December 21, 2009
the men
ONE:
There was a carnival during the day, some kind of festivities and at night there is a movie shown on bleachers in a classroom of sorts. I am sitting next to a friend, getting sleepy and he puts his arm around me and I lean deep into his shoulder. His hand wanders down my arm to my waist. Don’t you have a girlfriend? I ask and he hesitates only for a moment, smiles a bit. We are whispering close enough that we can feel each other’s breath on our faces. Our kisses are short and stolen and disappointingly uncharged. When we get up, I realize my boss is sitting right behind me and am embarrassed.
TWO:
A villa at the end of a cobblestone road in the city where everything is enclosed by stone. Some combination of Italy and New Orleans, though I do not claim to know either well. I have been living there, with a group of girls and a hugh hefner type man-of-the-house. I have been practicing using feminine wiles to get my way.
THREE:
It is a Monday and I’m supposed to be at work, but am instead in a cabin room somewhere. Somehow it is already 6pm and I am instant messaging with my exboyfriend who I have not spoken to in years and whatever we are talking about it confusing me. He shows up with his new girlfriend and I am not entirely sure how he found me but he is there and he wants to make a stop action animated porn. It’s never been done before, he says and I cite things close – aeon flux and team America and they are not quite the level he wants to take it. he has suggestions, ideas and pretty soon we have enlisted dozens’ help in constructing the set and I am arguing about the way to do it, the size it ought to be and we are hammering into uneven wood to create a model as wide as the one in the beetlejuice attic.
There was a carnival during the day, some kind of festivities and at night there is a movie shown on bleachers in a classroom of sorts. I am sitting next to a friend, getting sleepy and he puts his arm around me and I lean deep into his shoulder. His hand wanders down my arm to my waist. Don’t you have a girlfriend? I ask and he hesitates only for a moment, smiles a bit. We are whispering close enough that we can feel each other’s breath on our faces. Our kisses are short and stolen and disappointingly uncharged. When we get up, I realize my boss is sitting right behind me and am embarrassed.
TWO:
A villa at the end of a cobblestone road in the city where everything is enclosed by stone. Some combination of Italy and New Orleans, though I do not claim to know either well. I have been living there, with a group of girls and a hugh hefner type man-of-the-house. I have been practicing using feminine wiles to get my way.
THREE:
It is a Monday and I’m supposed to be at work, but am instead in a cabin room somewhere. Somehow it is already 6pm and I am instant messaging with my exboyfriend who I have not spoken to in years and whatever we are talking about it confusing me. He shows up with his new girlfriend and I am not entirely sure how he found me but he is there and he wants to make a stop action animated porn. It’s never been done before, he says and I cite things close – aeon flux and team America and they are not quite the level he wants to take it. he has suggestions, ideas and pretty soon we have enlisted dozens’ help in constructing the set and I am arguing about the way to do it, the size it ought to be and we are hammering into uneven wood to create a model as wide as the one in the beetlejuice attic.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)