27.1.06
riseup calmdown
i'm sitting across from myself right now. the position is very uncomfortable. it makes me realize what i look like when i sit across from people more important than myself. i start to stare deeply into my eyes. they look far-off and far back in my head. but they're staring forward, not at the wall, not at me, not at anything, and they're thinking. what are you thinking, i ask. i don't respond. i cross my arms and stare at myself like i'm guilty of something. i don't get it, i say. are you doing this to prove a point? what are you looking at? there's nothing to look at but you! stop looking like you're surprised or bored or crazy, i know you're not! i still don't respond and this makes me mad so i stand up and yell. what the fuck are you staring at?!?! fucking respond! i don't respond, so i sit. i cross my arms and look at myself like i'm waiting. i still don't speak. you're fucking boring, i say to myself. you're so fucking bored.
24.1.06
Milking The Milkman
rigly had been thinking a lot, probably too much, he thought. this morning he sat looking out his window, partially in anticipation but mostly out of distraction. he had been waiting for weeks for a package from his mother and just the day before he finally received notice that a delivery was attempted, but he 'wasn't home.' the slip said they had attempted delivery at 1:30pm. this made rigly feel guilty because he wasn't doing anything at 1:30pm aside from laying on the living room floor, staring somewhat sadly at the ceiling. today, he sat in the window and waited for the UPS truck to pull up.
his sneaking suspicion that he had been thinking too much only dawned on him after he had been sitting at the window for some time. in fact, when he looked at the clock, his initial reaction was confusion. it's 1:30? he thought. but this couldn't be. he had sat down at 1pm. surely more time had passed. when he looked back out the window he realized it was awfully dark for 1pm. he consulted the sun. there was no sun. only a very smug moon. rigly realized he had been sitting at the window for 12.5 hours. at first he was terribly embarrassed. then, slightly amused. and finally, completely disheartened.
if i can sit and look out the window, for 12.5 hours, and not be bothered by the phone, not be drawn to the kitchen to eat a snack. and finally, not even receive the package he had been waiting for, i am indeed a very sad person. do you hate me, moon? he caught himself feeling even more pathetic for speaking to the moon. i hate people who stare at the stars and moon, he thought. fuck you, moon! he yelled out the window. and stars! look how goddamn ugly these stars are! he shouted. rigly, despite his strong wish against it, admitted then, that the stars and moon were totally fucking crazy. stop staring at me! he yelled, and shut the window.
his sneaking suspicion that he had been thinking too much only dawned on him after he had been sitting at the window for some time. in fact, when he looked at the clock, his initial reaction was confusion. it's 1:30? he thought. but this couldn't be. he had sat down at 1pm. surely more time had passed. when he looked back out the window he realized it was awfully dark for 1pm. he consulted the sun. there was no sun. only a very smug moon. rigly realized he had been sitting at the window for 12.5 hours. at first he was terribly embarrassed. then, slightly amused. and finally, completely disheartened.
if i can sit and look out the window, for 12.5 hours, and not be bothered by the phone, not be drawn to the kitchen to eat a snack. and finally, not even receive the package he had been waiting for, i am indeed a very sad person. do you hate me, moon? he caught himself feeling even more pathetic for speaking to the moon. i hate people who stare at the stars and moon, he thought. fuck you, moon! he yelled out the window. and stars! look how goddamn ugly these stars are! he shouted. rigly, despite his strong wish against it, admitted then, that the stars and moon were totally fucking crazy. stop staring at me! he yelled, and shut the window.
12.1.06
Fin Tiltry
I visited Fin in Connecticut a few summers ago, where he proudly showed me his room before the most awkward dinner of my life with his parents. They emailed me, asking for me to visit because I had ‘such a profound impact on the boy.’ He said I was his favorite staff member at Long Lake because I ‘didn’t give a shit about shit.’ I never pictured myself visiting any of the kids I essentially worked for - some of their parents have taken me out to dinner when they were in the city, but the Tiltry's had nearly threatened me with sending Fin to my apartment if I didn't come to see them. The dinner was, as I said, awkward in the least, but Fin's bedroom was the most interesting aspect of the visit.
The Setting: A bedroom, which seemingly resembles a college dorm room, in the attic of a three-story colonial craftsman-style house. Up the winding staircase one enters the room and is taken by the height of it. The ceilings, planed in puzzle-like shapes, half pealing retro wallpaper, half flaking glue-stained sheetrock (where wallpaper once was), rise upward like the interior of a middle-class pyramid. Along one wall stands a pair of bunked beds, the bottom bed made neatly with a plaid duvet and corresponding pillow shams, the top a mass of twisted sheets and duvets. The walls, once white, are now a sort of stale eggshell color and are decked with record covers and psychedelic posters, all curled at the corner and speckled with tiny holes and wrinkles, revealing their age. Directly diagonal to the beds there is a rust-colored couch slouched between two stereo speakers and guarded by a stilted coffee table with names and dates carved haphazardly in its deeply veined wood. Thrown in the space between the couch and the bed lays a shag rug with its strands intertwined and matted. On the rug lays various items: a scratched and duct taped CD walkman (faintly playing The Eye of the Tiger through muffed headphones), a skateboard so covered with stickers its underside seems to be swelling, three wilted cigarettes that are beyond smoking, and numerous articles of clothing, all slightly tattered, worn, and smelling of boy.
The Character: Fin Tiltry is not a normal eight year old. He is, in all senses, ahead of his time. On Sunday mornings Fin sleeps until three or four in the afternoon and rises only when the light pouring in from the attics sheet-covered windows becomes too bright for his slate-blue eyes to ignore. He rises slowly from his top bunk, his shaggy blonde hair tussled and his eyes resembling slits in soft melon. First, before all else, he will scratch. It is a ritual of sorts. As his legs dangle from the top bunk he starts at his head. First rubbing his hair about, messing it further, and then gently pressing on his scalp with all ten fingers. Although he is barely awake, he considers this rubbing an essential part of his routine as it ‘wakes up his brain.’ He then gently urges at his eyes with twisted fists, removing all sleep-produced particles, and finally opens them slowly, allowing time form them to adjust to the sunlight. And then the scratching – his lower back comes first, damp from sweat, he itches rapidly. Then his hairless armpits. And lastly he claws at his entire torso and a wild motion, looking as though he is being attacked by bees. Then a sigh and a smile. His day can begin.
Nearing his 9th birthday, Fin has settled into what more closely resembles the life of an Ohio State frat boy. Two years earlier he had moved into the attic of his family’s house on account that ‘he needed more space.’ His parents, both professors at the local Ivy League and rarely caring about anything, barely raised a brow. Fin furnished his room with the things his four older brothers (all grown and gone) had left in their rooms or stored in the basement. With no help, outside of countless RedBulls (his drink of choice), Fin successfully moved all of his desired furnishings up the winding staircase of the attic and set up camp, rarely leaving. He is at peace in his bachelor pad. Only rarely does the blaring of 90’s classics disturb his parents and their only request is delivered by the family’s maid, Hilda, in the form of incessant rapping on the door at the bottom of his stairs. He rarely takes meals at the dining room table with his parents, but has repaired the dumbwaiter of their ancient house and hoists his meals up at the sound of the doorbell he has installed in the kitchen, which is only to be used by Hilda. In his room he keeps a mini-refrigerator, donated by the youngest of his older brothers, Lance, after he graduated from UPenn. He considers it a suitable addition to his space and keeps it stalked with RedBulls and string cheese. Later, when the family replaced their microwave, he hulled it up the dumbwaiter and rested it on top of the minifridge, using it primarily to cook ramen noodles and Jiffypop.
The Setting: A bedroom, which seemingly resembles a college dorm room, in the attic of a three-story colonial craftsman-style house. Up the winding staircase one enters the room and is taken by the height of it. The ceilings, planed in puzzle-like shapes, half pealing retro wallpaper, half flaking glue-stained sheetrock (where wallpaper once was), rise upward like the interior of a middle-class pyramid. Along one wall stands a pair of bunked beds, the bottom bed made neatly with a plaid duvet and corresponding pillow shams, the top a mass of twisted sheets and duvets. The walls, once white, are now a sort of stale eggshell color and are decked with record covers and psychedelic posters, all curled at the corner and speckled with tiny holes and wrinkles, revealing their age. Directly diagonal to the beds there is a rust-colored couch slouched between two stereo speakers and guarded by a stilted coffee table with names and dates carved haphazardly in its deeply veined wood. Thrown in the space between the couch and the bed lays a shag rug with its strands intertwined and matted. On the rug lays various items: a scratched and duct taped CD walkman (faintly playing The Eye of the Tiger through muffed headphones), a skateboard so covered with stickers its underside seems to be swelling, three wilted cigarettes that are beyond smoking, and numerous articles of clothing, all slightly tattered, worn, and smelling of boy.
The Character: Fin Tiltry is not a normal eight year old. He is, in all senses, ahead of his time. On Sunday mornings Fin sleeps until three or four in the afternoon and rises only when the light pouring in from the attics sheet-covered windows becomes too bright for his slate-blue eyes to ignore. He rises slowly from his top bunk, his shaggy blonde hair tussled and his eyes resembling slits in soft melon. First, before all else, he will scratch. It is a ritual of sorts. As his legs dangle from the top bunk he starts at his head. First rubbing his hair about, messing it further, and then gently pressing on his scalp with all ten fingers. Although he is barely awake, he considers this rubbing an essential part of his routine as it ‘wakes up his brain.’ He then gently urges at his eyes with twisted fists, removing all sleep-produced particles, and finally opens them slowly, allowing time form them to adjust to the sunlight. And then the scratching – his lower back comes first, damp from sweat, he itches rapidly. Then his hairless armpits. And lastly he claws at his entire torso and a wild motion, looking as though he is being attacked by bees. Then a sigh and a smile. His day can begin.
Nearing his 9th birthday, Fin has settled into what more closely resembles the life of an Ohio State frat boy. Two years earlier he had moved into the attic of his family’s house on account that ‘he needed more space.’ His parents, both professors at the local Ivy League and rarely caring about anything, barely raised a brow. Fin furnished his room with the things his four older brothers (all grown and gone) had left in their rooms or stored in the basement. With no help, outside of countless RedBulls (his drink of choice), Fin successfully moved all of his desired furnishings up the winding staircase of the attic and set up camp, rarely leaving. He is at peace in his bachelor pad. Only rarely does the blaring of 90’s classics disturb his parents and their only request is delivered by the family’s maid, Hilda, in the form of incessant rapping on the door at the bottom of his stairs. He rarely takes meals at the dining room table with his parents, but has repaired the dumbwaiter of their ancient house and hoists his meals up at the sound of the doorbell he has installed in the kitchen, which is only to be used by Hilda. In his room he keeps a mini-refrigerator, donated by the youngest of his older brothers, Lance, after he graduated from UPenn. He considers it a suitable addition to his space and keeps it stalked with RedBulls and string cheese. Later, when the family replaced their microwave, he hulled it up the dumbwaiter and rested it on top of the minifridge, using it primarily to cook ramen noodles and Jiffypop.
Adventure
Genre: Slight Fiction
You call and say you want to go on adventure and I think we met on Thursday and it’s Sunday and isn’t that a little early for an adventure? but I meet you and instead of hello you say you are happy I’m not ugly because you were very drunk on Thursday and couldn’t remember. I’m not sure if ‘not ugly’ means I’m attractive, and I think I find you attractive, but it’s hard to tell because I guess was drunk on Thursday too and here on this street it’s too dark to tell. So you say you hate New York style pizza and then look at me. Silence. And I say I’m sorry and look at you. Silence. And it’s starting to get awkward but then I see this is part of the adventure so we start walking and look for a real Italian restaurant. So we find one and I’m not sure how and it’s empty and quiet and no we’re alone. I sit across from you and we look at each other for a long time. Then you talk and I’m not listening because now I know I’m attracted to you and it’s sort of distracting because I’m usually not attracted to anyone except myself. Then you stop talking and I see that you’ve asked me a question and are waiting for me to respond. I say I’m sorry but I was distracted and you ask by what and I say you look like someone, which is true, but it’s not what I was thinking. Then we start to talk again and this time I listen for fear of embarrassing myself but I’m surprised because I’m actually interested in what you’re saying. We eat and talk and eat and talk and the meal is over and it was good but not as good as it really is, it’s better because you’re better. So we leave and put on our coats and it’s cold outside and you ask what’s next. I don’t know, I say and you ask if there’s anywhere I really want to go and haven’t. There’s lots of places I want to go but haven’t but that’s because I’m poor and it cost money to go anywhere in this city. But then I remember this courtyard to this building that looks really beautiful and I tell you about it and before I’m even done you take my hand and start walking in that direction. I’m not even sure how you know where you’re going because I didn’t say where it was but somehow you know what courtyard I’m talking about and after a few minutes of walking we’re standing in front of the gates. They’re locked and I say oh well but you say no way and now you’re climbing. I say no way and you say come on and suddenly we’re inside. It’s quiet and nice and you’re quiet and nice and we kiss for just a second before you take my hand again and we’re walking around. After a little while and when I don’t even know where I am anymore someone shines a flashlight at us and we run. Then somehow, I’m not sure how, we’re on the street and we’re laughing and kissing and still holding hands and you say wanna smoke and I do. So we walk to your building, this old hotel, and we’re in the elevator and talking and then we’re inside where it’s warm and then we’re outside on your balcony and smoking. We smoke and laugh and smoke and kiss and I’m so stoned I think I might fall over and you say it’s not over yet. So we go to the street and it’s freezing and we bundle each other and I’m not sure where my arms end and yours begin and I can feel every bone under your skin while we walk to Duncan Donuts. Then we’re inside and I say I don’t have any money and you say me either and before I can turn to leave you start talking to the man behind the counter and then we’re outside eating the donuts you argued out of him. So then we sit on a stoop and we wrap around each other and we kiss and I say it’s funny because it’s not the first time and you said you know because we kissed a lot tonight and I say no, I was talking about Thursday when we met and we were drunk and we kissed and exchanged numbers. You say it’s funny but not really, because now a lot has happened and we might even be in love. And I say what time is it and you say it’s five and I don’t say anything. But then I realize that you meant it was five in the morning and our adventure started at five in the evening and it’s been twelve hours and I didn’t even notice because your adventure had taken me somewhere I’d never been before.
You call and say you want to go on adventure and I think we met on Thursday and it’s Sunday and isn’t that a little early for an adventure? but I meet you and instead of hello you say you are happy I’m not ugly because you were very drunk on Thursday and couldn’t remember. I’m not sure if ‘not ugly’ means I’m attractive, and I think I find you attractive, but it’s hard to tell because I guess was drunk on Thursday too and here on this street it’s too dark to tell. So you say you hate New York style pizza and then look at me. Silence. And I say I’m sorry and look at you. Silence. And it’s starting to get awkward but then I see this is part of the adventure so we start walking and look for a real Italian restaurant. So we find one and I’m not sure how and it’s empty and quiet and no we’re alone. I sit across from you and we look at each other for a long time. Then you talk and I’m not listening because now I know I’m attracted to you and it’s sort of distracting because I’m usually not attracted to anyone except myself. Then you stop talking and I see that you’ve asked me a question and are waiting for me to respond. I say I’m sorry but I was distracted and you ask by what and I say you look like someone, which is true, but it’s not what I was thinking. Then we start to talk again and this time I listen for fear of embarrassing myself but I’m surprised because I’m actually interested in what you’re saying. We eat and talk and eat and talk and the meal is over and it was good but not as good as it really is, it’s better because you’re better. So we leave and put on our coats and it’s cold outside and you ask what’s next. I don’t know, I say and you ask if there’s anywhere I really want to go and haven’t. There’s lots of places I want to go but haven’t but that’s because I’m poor and it cost money to go anywhere in this city. But then I remember this courtyard to this building that looks really beautiful and I tell you about it and before I’m even done you take my hand and start walking in that direction. I’m not even sure how you know where you’re going because I didn’t say where it was but somehow you know what courtyard I’m talking about and after a few minutes of walking we’re standing in front of the gates. They’re locked and I say oh well but you say no way and now you’re climbing. I say no way and you say come on and suddenly we’re inside. It’s quiet and nice and you’re quiet and nice and we kiss for just a second before you take my hand again and we’re walking around. After a little while and when I don’t even know where I am anymore someone shines a flashlight at us and we run. Then somehow, I’m not sure how, we’re on the street and we’re laughing and kissing and still holding hands and you say wanna smoke and I do. So we walk to your building, this old hotel, and we’re in the elevator and talking and then we’re inside where it’s warm and then we’re outside on your balcony and smoking. We smoke and laugh and smoke and kiss and I’m so stoned I think I might fall over and you say it’s not over yet. So we go to the street and it’s freezing and we bundle each other and I’m not sure where my arms end and yours begin and I can feel every bone under your skin while we walk to Duncan Donuts. Then we’re inside and I say I don’t have any money and you say me either and before I can turn to leave you start talking to the man behind the counter and then we’re outside eating the donuts you argued out of him. So then we sit on a stoop and we wrap around each other and we kiss and I say it’s funny because it’s not the first time and you said you know because we kissed a lot tonight and I say no, I was talking about Thursday when we met and we were drunk and we kissed and exchanged numbers. You say it’s funny but not really, because now a lot has happened and we might even be in love. And I say what time is it and you say it’s five and I don’t say anything. But then I realize that you meant it was five in the morning and our adventure started at five in the evening and it’s been twelve hours and I didn’t even notice because your adventure had taken me somewhere I’d never been before.
11.1.06
today
this morning i awoke on the couch. i was in a sitting position. i was completely dressed. a blazer, a hat, boots, a scarf. i had been dreaming about a party that i was throwing. i wanted everyone to stay, but they wouldn't stay, so i threw them out. i was screaming, which is why i woke up. i woke up. fully dressed, like i said. and i walked to the bathroom.
then suddenly, maybe prompted by what i was reading as i sat on the bathroom floor, i gave up. i said goodbye, i dropped a tear, i fixed my hair, i left the house.
my life is completely guided by everyone else. stupid glory.
then suddenly, maybe prompted by what i was reading as i sat on the bathroom floor, i gave up. i said goodbye, i dropped a tear, i fixed my hair, i left the house.
my life is completely guided by everyone else. stupid glory.
9.1.06
my song.
the day i was born the number one song on the charts was The Reflex - Duran Duran:
'The reflex is an only child, he’s waiting in the park
The reflex is in charge of finding treasure in the dark
And watching over lucky clover isn’t that bizarre
Every little thing the reflex does leaves you answered with a
Question mark
I’m on a ride and I want to get off
But they won’t slow down the roundabout
I sold the renoir and the tv set
Don’t want to be around when this gets out'
and so, i can't help but think, my mother really must hate me. so i called her to find out, and like she always does, she lied. she said she loves me, but i could here the regret in her voice - 'if he were born in the 90's, i could have left that little crying shit in a dumpster at the mall.'
8.1.06
In my mind (me in your mind) AKA makes no sense
Genre: Poetry
In my mind, I am more than me
In your mind.
I am everything that we once were
And continue to be,
Not for me, but for you,
In your mind.
See, I’m very far,
What with me moving on,
But for you, in my mind,
I am still close.
I am the time we,
Somewhat absent mindedly,
Forgot to be safe but pulled out
And prayed.
I am, to you, the things that
We said that
Night we sat and smoked and smoked
Until we couldn’t stop and laughed
This and that,
We spitted and spat,
Kiss and pat.
I am for you, everywhere,
Slinking down every narrow vein
Of yours.
The time, of course, long gone,
But not for you, I think.
You think, about me, as home.
A bed, a dresser, a chair.
I’m sitting right here,
You’re sitting right there.
You see me, and hear me,
Look in the mirror: me.
And sigh.
I am everywhere to you.
You can’t forget me
Because you can’t have me
And you still want me.
And that hurts, see?
I am multi-purpose.
I am dust on surface.
I am page after page,
Fingers licking, corners crinkling.
I am your heart’s thoughts –
An ever-bending wire hanger.
I unlock doors, I dry tear-wet shirts.
In my mind, your mind, is full of me.
And it hurts. See?
In my mind, I am more than me
In your mind.
I am everything that we once were
And continue to be,
Not for me, but for you,
In your mind.
See, I’m very far,
What with me moving on,
But for you, in my mind,
I am still close.
I am the time we,
Somewhat absent mindedly,
Forgot to be safe but pulled out
And prayed.
I am, to you, the things that
We said that
Night we sat and smoked and smoked
Until we couldn’t stop and laughed
This and that,
We spitted and spat,
Kiss and pat.
I am for you, everywhere,
Slinking down every narrow vein
Of yours.
The time, of course, long gone,
But not for you, I think.
You think, about me, as home.
A bed, a dresser, a chair.
I’m sitting right here,
You’re sitting right there.
You see me, and hear me,
Look in the mirror: me.
And sigh.
I am everywhere to you.
You can’t forget me
Because you can’t have me
And you still want me.
And that hurts, see?
I am multi-purpose.
I am dust on surface.
I am page after page,
Fingers licking, corners crinkling.
I am your heart’s thoughts –
An ever-bending wire hanger.
I unlock doors, I dry tear-wet shirts.
In my mind, your mind, is full of me.
And it hurts. See?
6.1.06
I think you're growing heroin in your back yard.
Genre: Dramatic Monologue
"I think you’re growing heroin in your backyard. Because to me, you can do that. You’re capable, I know. I used to worship you when cigarettes were as bad as cocaine. Now crystal-meth is just appetizer, you kid. Like chapstick. I remember when, you, with far less tattoos, cried to me and made me feel like I actually had advice to give. It only lasted a minute or two, but I felt a lot bigger than you. Now it’s the same as it usually was and I’m sitting on the couch and feeling like I’m twelve-something and you’re 5AM and still going. Even if I surpassed you in my self-loathing, which might be closer to the truth, yours is stronger, you’d think. I’d probably even agree. Because if you say so, it must be, because you make me believe. You convince me, at least when I’m kneeling before you, that life is a bad bad song and it’s ending soon. Fucking Avril Lavine, you say.
Now you’re pacing. You’re moving your hands like the bible is glued to them and you’re flailing in a desperate attempt to free yourself. I’m barely even listening, because just the sight of you does so much for me. Your eyes are very angry, which makes them look silly, but I’d never say that, because it would be mean. I’m still sitting, you’re still flailing, and I think of the time I wished I had AIDS so I’d lose weight. That’s weird. And not very funny.
I better start paying attention, because you might, by the grace of some strange force stronger than crack, ask me what I think and if you did it right now I’d say something about having AIDS. You’d slap me, probably. Actually, probably not, because you’d like it for me to say that. Because it wouldn’t make sense and I never make sense and you depend on that. And I’m dependable.
You ask me if I want to get some food because Blow-Pop or Iggy-Igs might be working at the bagel place and you could get us free food. I’m not hungry but you taught me that free should never be turned down, so we leave.
It feels funny when I walk beside you, because it might mean that I’m your equal, which I know very well you’d disagree with. I would too. I don’t like being equal, less-than or more-than only, please. I like being your less-than. It makes me feel more than in the rest of the world.
Blow-pop or Iggy-Igs are both not working at the bagel place, so I buy. I can’t tell if you like this, or hate this, because you’re not talking, just eating. I’m not hungry, so I watch. Your jaws look really strong - like that bagel is a concrete sponge. You’re like a concrete sponge."
"I think you’re growing heroin in your backyard. Because to me, you can do that. You’re capable, I know. I used to worship you when cigarettes were as bad as cocaine. Now crystal-meth is just appetizer, you kid. Like chapstick. I remember when, you, with far less tattoos, cried to me and made me feel like I actually had advice to give. It only lasted a minute or two, but I felt a lot bigger than you. Now it’s the same as it usually was and I’m sitting on the couch and feeling like I’m twelve-something and you’re 5AM and still going. Even if I surpassed you in my self-loathing, which might be closer to the truth, yours is stronger, you’d think. I’d probably even agree. Because if you say so, it must be, because you make me believe. You convince me, at least when I’m kneeling before you, that life is a bad bad song and it’s ending soon. Fucking Avril Lavine, you say.
Now you’re pacing. You’re moving your hands like the bible is glued to them and you’re flailing in a desperate attempt to free yourself. I’m barely even listening, because just the sight of you does so much for me. Your eyes are very angry, which makes them look silly, but I’d never say that, because it would be mean. I’m still sitting, you’re still flailing, and I think of the time I wished I had AIDS so I’d lose weight. That’s weird. And not very funny.
I better start paying attention, because you might, by the grace of some strange force stronger than crack, ask me what I think and if you did it right now I’d say something about having AIDS. You’d slap me, probably. Actually, probably not, because you’d like it for me to say that. Because it wouldn’t make sense and I never make sense and you depend on that. And I’m dependable.
You ask me if I want to get some food because Blow-Pop or Iggy-Igs might be working at the bagel place and you could get us free food. I’m not hungry but you taught me that free should never be turned down, so we leave.
It feels funny when I walk beside you, because it might mean that I’m your equal, which I know very well you’d disagree with. I would too. I don’t like being equal, less-than or more-than only, please. I like being your less-than. It makes me feel more than in the rest of the world.
Blow-pop or Iggy-Igs are both not working at the bagel place, so I buy. I can’t tell if you like this, or hate this, because you’re not talking, just eating. I’m not hungry, so I watch. Your jaws look really strong - like that bagel is a concrete sponge. You’re like a concrete sponge."
4.1.06
Alice McKibbin and Sixteen Mailboxes
Genre: Dramatic Monologue
"I’m waiting by the mailbox, smoking a cig while I wait for Jimmy and one of his stupid friends to pull down the long, long road and pick me up. It’s November and cold and I really should have worn pants, leggings even. This weather is shit and soon it’ll be snow. It could probably snow right now and here I am, standing in a stupid little suede thing. It’s not that I wore a skirt for him so much as I know he’ll want to mess around in the backseat later and this just makes things easier. I hate the fumbling with belts and zippers and Jimmy’s not that smooth, really. Last week I was standing just right here and thinking the same thing. I was also thinking about how I never take a swing at the mailboxes like Jimmy and his stupid friend – my hair blowing out the window, bat in hand – swing, crash, cheer. 60 miles an hour in a 45, crumbled mailbox pummeling the road behind us. Whoo-fucking-hoo. Or was it that Jimmy never lets me? Not that I’d want to. I’d rather sit alone in the back where it’s not so loud and smoke cigarettes. If I get bored I can always glance back to see if it was a full one, see the letters and papers flow behind us in the red light. Plus I’m wearing the skirt. And Jimmy wouldn’t like my ass up in the air where his stupid friend can take a dirty glance at it while I’m concentrating on my aim – swing, crash, cheer.
Sometimes we backtrack down roads we’ve already tried; we drive through the mail, swerve past the rutted boxes. Jimmy and his stupid friend say stupid things like “we really fucked that one up real bad!” while I roll my eyes and think about how surely a couple of those letters were meant to get somewhere real important and now they’re in the ditch while Jimmy’s stupid friend laughs like a hyena. Not that I really care. It wouldn’t feel all that good to me anyway, smashing a stupid mailbox. I don’t need to blow off that kind of steam. Jimmy does. Here I’m standing, thinking about my stupid skirt and Jimmy’s got it real bad; he needs to hit something that won’t hit back.
That’s why I go, really. Jimmy likes it and he doesn’t get to like much, sometimes not even me, and a crumpled mailbox is a small price to pay, really. Yeah, he’ll blow off some steam, drink from his flask, and later he’ll crawl into the backseat and we’ll mess around while his friend speeds real fast, smokes a joint. Stupid friend, smoking a joint and driving. I don’t touch the stuff, makes me paranoid, but he could kill someone. Not that I really care. My name is Alice McKibbin. I’ll do the same thing next week."
"I’m waiting by the mailbox, smoking a cig while I wait for Jimmy and one of his stupid friends to pull down the long, long road and pick me up. It’s November and cold and I really should have worn pants, leggings even. This weather is shit and soon it’ll be snow. It could probably snow right now and here I am, standing in a stupid little suede thing. It’s not that I wore a skirt for him so much as I know he’ll want to mess around in the backseat later and this just makes things easier. I hate the fumbling with belts and zippers and Jimmy’s not that smooth, really. Last week I was standing just right here and thinking the same thing. I was also thinking about how I never take a swing at the mailboxes like Jimmy and his stupid friend – my hair blowing out the window, bat in hand – swing, crash, cheer. 60 miles an hour in a 45, crumbled mailbox pummeling the road behind us. Whoo-fucking-hoo. Or was it that Jimmy never lets me? Not that I’d want to. I’d rather sit alone in the back where it’s not so loud and smoke cigarettes. If I get bored I can always glance back to see if it was a full one, see the letters and papers flow behind us in the red light. Plus I’m wearing the skirt. And Jimmy wouldn’t like my ass up in the air where his stupid friend can take a dirty glance at it while I’m concentrating on my aim – swing, crash, cheer.
Sometimes we backtrack down roads we’ve already tried; we drive through the mail, swerve past the rutted boxes. Jimmy and his stupid friend say stupid things like “we really fucked that one up real bad!” while I roll my eyes and think about how surely a couple of those letters were meant to get somewhere real important and now they’re in the ditch while Jimmy’s stupid friend laughs like a hyena. Not that I really care. It wouldn’t feel all that good to me anyway, smashing a stupid mailbox. I don’t need to blow off that kind of steam. Jimmy does. Here I’m standing, thinking about my stupid skirt and Jimmy’s got it real bad; he needs to hit something that won’t hit back.
That’s why I go, really. Jimmy likes it and he doesn’t get to like much, sometimes not even me, and a crumpled mailbox is a small price to pay, really. Yeah, he’ll blow off some steam, drink from his flask, and later he’ll crawl into the backseat and we’ll mess around while his friend speeds real fast, smokes a joint. Stupid friend, smoking a joint and driving. I don’t touch the stuff, makes me paranoid, but he could kill someone. Not that I really care. My name is Alice McKibbin. I’ll do the same thing next week."
1.1.06
Flashbulb of a Thought
Two men sit on a bench in Union Square. They're both wearing green jumpsuits, they are both drinking coffee from paper cups, one is smoking a cigarette and they are talking in deep voices.
"so, lou, let me get this right," one says, "i'm not environmentally concious unless i wipe my ass with a plastic bag, then wash the bag, and use it to pack my lunch. that's fucked up, lou. that's real fucked up."
"well, i mean, you use soap and everything. you don't just rinse the shit off the bag," the other says, somewhat apologetically.
"wow," the first says. "and i used to consider myself environmentally concious. wow, lou. you just blew my mind into a million little pieces."
they finish their coffee, stand, and walk away.
"so, lou, let me get this right," one says, "i'm not environmentally concious unless i wipe my ass with a plastic bag, then wash the bag, and use it to pack my lunch. that's fucked up, lou. that's real fucked up."
"well, i mean, you use soap and everything. you don't just rinse the shit off the bag," the other says, somewhat apologetically.
"wow," the first says. "and i used to consider myself environmentally concious. wow, lou. you just blew my mind into a million little pieces."
they finish their coffee, stand, and walk away.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)