He wasn’t really expecting Ivy to be there when he went back to Café du Monde. It was like letting the phone ring that one last time, on the off-chance it gets picked up. Hopeless, he knew, and he browbeat himself for indulging, but when anyway.
And was surprised to find her sitting alone on the terrace, reading a book by the insect-swarmed lamp.
He stood there, staring at her for an eternity, in amazement, in admiration, in adoration. Then he shook himself and hopped the fence like so many mornings, taking the chair across from her.
“Hi,” he said sheepishly as she glanced up from her book.
“Where have you been?” she asked, stealing his words. Her face was concern; not worry, but like God in the Garden at the Fall. As though she knew where, only wanted to hear him say it.
“I was having. . . . a talk with someone,” he said.
“You wanna know something?”
“What?”
She brushed a lock of hair from her face, twisting in his stomach like winding a clock. “Sometimes the questions are more beautiful than the answers have the capacity to be. Sometimes. . . . sometimes the truth is more complicated than an explanation can clarify.”
“That’s what he said.” Kevin helped himself to her coffee mug. “I just don’t know how it’s done,” he told the tawny swirls.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Concerning the Park
Pale blue angels loitering about park-benches along the concrete lake shore; pale devils cupping cigarettes against the breeze, faces vanishing in the orange flare. Wan spirits of children staring as unabashed as only the innocent can, led into darkness by the hand of preoccupied parents. Ghostly lovers reclined on blankets spread across the damp grass and beneath the occasional glimpse of Orion flexing dimly on midnight blue. Faded winter captured in a glass of wine caught flashing in a moment of moonlight and revenants in evening supplication. Dew, tears, rain, absolution. Perhaps we stress too much over definition.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Concerning the Response
Maybe God does move closer to the earth on holy days. Maybe he senses more minds and souls receptive, seeking. Weeping without words. Or maybe he is always close, and we are more in tune. The gap of accessibility shrinks, lessening the reaction time before encounter. Whatever it is, what Kevin saw when he looked into the face of the crucifix was a blending of emotion, a gamut of indescribable pain, sorrow, hurt, and somehow a sense of resolution. Of need and fulfillment; of emptiness and meaning; of water and wine. Of Gethsemane understanding.
Kevin opened his mouth to speak, maybe protest, like struggling to cry out in a dream. He was as inchoate and mute as when the Ghost reminded him of the one scar among many, shaking, face flushed and wet. Finally the words made it from his throat to his lips. “FUCK YOU!” he screamed, not caring who heard.
The echo of his boots chased him from the sanctuary, whipping candles, down the saturnine steps and the mindless circle of the park outside.
Kevin opened his mouth to speak, maybe protest, like struggling to cry out in a dream. He was as inchoate and mute as when the Ghost reminded him of the one scar among many, shaking, face flushed and wet. Finally the words made it from his throat to his lips. “FUCK YOU!” he screamed, not caring who heard.
The echo of his boots chased him from the sanctuary, whipping candles, down the saturnine steps and the mindless circle of the park outside.
Concerning the Response
Maybe God does move closer to the earth on holy days. Maybe he senses more minds and souls receptive, seeking. Weeping without words. Or maybe he is always close, and we are more in tune. The gap of accessibility shrinks, lessening the reaction time before encounter. Whatever it is, what Kevin saw when he looked into the face of the crucifix was a blending of emotion, a gamut of indescribable pain, sorrow, hurt, and somehow a sense of resolution. Of need and fulfillment; of emptiness and meaning; of water and wine. Of Gethsemane understanding.
Kevin opened his mouth to speak, maybe protest, like struggling to cry out in a dream. He was as inchoate and mute as when the Ghost reminded him of the one scar among many, shaking, face flushed and wet. Finally the words made it from his throat to his lips. “FUCK YOU!” he screamed, not caring who heard.
The echo of his boots chased him from the sanctuary, whipping candles, down the saturnine steps and the mindless circle of the park outside.
Kevin opened his mouth to speak, maybe protest, like struggling to cry out in a dream. He was as inchoate and mute as when the Ghost reminded him of the one scar among many, shaking, face flushed and wet. Finally the words made it from his throat to his lips. “FUCK YOU!” he screamed, not caring who heard.
The echo of his boots chased him from the sanctuary, whipping candles, down the saturnine steps and the mindless circle of the park outside.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Concerning the Prayer
Kevin glanced around nervously, making sure he wouldn’t be overheard. “Being God, you should know who I am, so we can forgo the formalities,” he began. His own voice startled him. Damned that he should analyze it now but he felt too plaintive. This was his moment after all. “So you also know what I currently think about you. So. Here’s your chance. Here’s your big moment to change my mind. Go on. I’m open.”
His eyes dropped to the floor. Silence was reverent without his contribution. “But you never speak, do you. That’s the problem, isn’t it? That you refuse to move a hand in this world, stop all this shit you set in motion? Catch the falling sparrow. You start knocking humanity like Dominos and then you aren’t supposed to be responsible for what your name gets applied to. And I’m supposed to accept that just because you know when the sparrow falls? Where’s the sense in that?
“Ivy says we’re here to be interconnected. That we require it. So where does that leave me? Did you think of that before you started this? Or are some of us just decided the chamber pot from the start? Is that the question-- is it that you don’t really give a shit, or some of us are just the freaking rejects so you can grade on the curve? Some of us you can slap around, and that’s okay because you’re God and you can do that. Your ineffable plan.”
His vision was starting to waver with ambivalent tears, struggling to keep them in, struggling to let it out, the desperation to plow ahead stronger than any addictive hunger he had ever felt. Not caring who heard him now – the world had faded away but for a scarred boy and an alabaster representation of a broken, dolorous God.
“Our needs and wants may not amount to much in your cosmic worldview but they weren't so much to ask for from this end. At least a simple explanation of Why? Why the hell you kept me alive for THIS?! Huh?”
He raised his eyes to look Christ in his, and a saline film revealed a detail he hadn’t noticed: Christ’s ribs were showing. And not simply that, the artist had sculpted his icon with flesh draped like ragged belts, shorn away and oozing. It was graphic, almost sacrilegious in a church. And Kevin realized his hand was reaching to the scars on his own back.
His eyes dropped to the floor. Silence was reverent without his contribution. “But you never speak, do you. That’s the problem, isn’t it? That you refuse to move a hand in this world, stop all this shit you set in motion? Catch the falling sparrow. You start knocking humanity like Dominos and then you aren’t supposed to be responsible for what your name gets applied to. And I’m supposed to accept that just because you know when the sparrow falls? Where’s the sense in that?
“Ivy says we’re here to be interconnected. That we require it. So where does that leave me? Did you think of that before you started this? Or are some of us just decided the chamber pot from the start? Is that the question-- is it that you don’t really give a shit, or some of us are just the freaking rejects so you can grade on the curve? Some of us you can slap around, and that’s okay because you’re God and you can do that. Your ineffable plan.”
His vision was starting to waver with ambivalent tears, struggling to keep them in, struggling to let it out, the desperation to plow ahead stronger than any addictive hunger he had ever felt. Not caring who heard him now – the world had faded away but for a scarred boy and an alabaster representation of a broken, dolorous God.
“Our needs and wants may not amount to much in your cosmic worldview but they weren't so much to ask for from this end. At least a simple explanation of Why? Why the hell you kept me alive for THIS?! Huh?”
He raised his eyes to look Christ in his, and a saline film revealed a detail he hadn’t noticed: Christ’s ribs were showing. And not simply that, the artist had sculpted his icon with flesh draped like ragged belts, shorn away and oozing. It was graphic, almost sacrilegious in a church. And Kevin realized his hand was reaching to the scars on his own back.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Concerning the Icon
Up to the front resolutely, passing a scattering of the devout lighting tea candles or on their knees in abased introspection. Ahead was suspended the faded form of a man, hidden by darkness of time, of light, and men. Ahead was the form of responsibility. Here was, in icon, his destiny.
Polished alabaster, faded, pitted, browned through time and stained by the smoke of the very sacraments of his worship, the crucifix hung over a gilded altar, haloed by a bronze corona like the Bethlehem star had exploded, shimmering in the half-light. Kevin paused before the sculpture, the flickering candles shifting the emotion of the Christ’s face as surely as it had when he’d first hung there.
The human mind, Kevin reflected, has a curious way of glossing over the shocking, horrible moment it just beheld, burying it as if it cannot exist if it falls outside of the prosaic; you catch ghosts, and weep for reasons you’re not exactly sure of triggered by simple melodies or resonating poetry, but have to force it back into the significance it deserves.
Maybe a lifetime of excoriation had brought him to a point of a spectator, but even now he looked at this symbol of the most horrifying event in history, an execution practice unparalleled in pain in cruelty, and was amused at its use as scenery, passed by but for pangs of angst or invocation to serenity. It was Good Friday. The one night this horror is hallowed. And here he feels alone.
And yet, here was the pull of gravity. Here he was drawn from the vestibule’s event horizon to the very singularity where hung the Christ. It was as though every moment in his life was a raindrop spiraling down the pane, slowly gathering into this pool at the end. This is where it all stopped, regardless of the conclusion, here was the fulcrum.
Polished alabaster, faded, pitted, browned through time and stained by the smoke of the very sacraments of his worship, the crucifix hung over a gilded altar, haloed by a bronze corona like the Bethlehem star had exploded, shimmering in the half-light. Kevin paused before the sculpture, the flickering candles shifting the emotion of the Christ’s face as surely as it had when he’d first hung there.
The human mind, Kevin reflected, has a curious way of glossing over the shocking, horrible moment it just beheld, burying it as if it cannot exist if it falls outside of the prosaic; you catch ghosts, and weep for reasons you’re not exactly sure of triggered by simple melodies or resonating poetry, but have to force it back into the significance it deserves.
Maybe a lifetime of excoriation had brought him to a point of a spectator, but even now he looked at this symbol of the most horrifying event in history, an execution practice unparalleled in pain in cruelty, and was amused at its use as scenery, passed by but for pangs of angst or invocation to serenity. It was Good Friday. The one night this horror is hallowed. And here he feels alone.
And yet, here was the pull of gravity. Here he was drawn from the vestibule’s event horizon to the very singularity where hung the Christ. It was as though every moment in his life was a raindrop spiraling down the pane, slowly gathering into this pool at the end. This is where it all stopped, regardless of the conclusion, here was the fulcrum.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Concerning the Altar
Not sure why he scaled the steps, pitted with lagoons of water black in the absence of light. Some compulsion yearning in him to see this spiritual Bastille apart from the representation in his father. Perhaps a desire, sunken deep below, for absolution – to have revealed, one way or another, truth. Or maybe validation, the manifestation proven all he had known it was. He didn’t know, couldn’t bring himself to analyze, just watched himself walk in.
The vestibule passed wordlessly behind, rattling of ancient radiators in the doorway unwieldy before the vastness of the sanctuary before him. Most of the hall was in shadow, spun like puppets from the candles that were tonight’s only light. Some, in clusters, had seduced patrons to kneel before them, Aim-a-Flames clutched reverently in folded hands.
Kevin felt like an unexpected cough in a library, like any moment now God would notice he was standing there and object. He took a breath and willed himself down the worn carpet of the center aisle, fingertips brushing the chipped walnut pew arms in a ritual many before him had undertaken just as unconsciously, an anchor from the vanishing point spiraling into the presence of God.
The altar began to melt into a shape from the gyrating shadows, and for a moment he hesitated; he was an intruder in the house of God, coming to bandy words and raise a finger as if he expected an answer. Then a chunk of memory bobbed to the surface: his father, face sclerotic as usual, jerking his arm painfully and screaming about reverence. Kevin clenched his teeth at the image. Screw it. God had a lot he should answer for.
The vestibule passed wordlessly behind, rattling of ancient radiators in the doorway unwieldy before the vastness of the sanctuary before him. Most of the hall was in shadow, spun like puppets from the candles that were tonight’s only light. Some, in clusters, had seduced patrons to kneel before them, Aim-a-Flames clutched reverently in folded hands.
Kevin felt like an unexpected cough in a library, like any moment now God would notice he was standing there and object. He took a breath and willed himself down the worn carpet of the center aisle, fingertips brushing the chipped walnut pew arms in a ritual many before him had undertaken just as unconsciously, an anchor from the vanishing point spiraling into the presence of God.
The altar began to melt into a shape from the gyrating shadows, and for a moment he hesitated; he was an intruder in the house of God, coming to bandy words and raise a finger as if he expected an answer. Then a chunk of memory bobbed to the surface: his father, face sclerotic as usual, jerking his arm painfully and screaming about reverence. Kevin clenched his teeth at the image. Screw it. God had a lot he should answer for.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Concerning The Church
It’s disheartening that when you’ve made up your mind to ask a woman to run away with you, she’s not there to ask.
The other waitress at Café du Monde had to trade days, she said, and no she had no idea where Ivy was. Neither did the phone rhythmically purring, until Kevin finally hung up in dismay.
Not really knowing why or to where, maybe because he felt he had nowhere to really go, Kevin started walking down wet pavement and moist air, through the park full of yuppies jogging and walking dogs, and found himself, on Good Friday, as the light was fading into a dark purple bruise, outside of St. Michael's.
The other waitress at Café du Monde had to trade days, she said, and no she had no idea where Ivy was. Neither did the phone rhythmically purring, until Kevin finally hung up in dismay.
Not really knowing why or to where, maybe because he felt he had nowhere to really go, Kevin started walking down wet pavement and moist air, through the park full of yuppies jogging and walking dogs, and found himself, on Good Friday, as the light was fading into a dark purple bruise, outside of St. Michael's.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Concerning the Apartment
Sounds of tenement. Somewhere in the building a wailing baby, cutting through the drone of phlegmatic ludicrousness of day-time TV talk shows. He let the door click closed, waiting on the threshold of more than a soured doormat, listening to a woman trying to hush the child, breathing in the stale must and searing Mexican spice, the actinic ammonia of cat urine, the old garbage and city air slithering through cracked windows.
Then he took the wooden stairs, through the front door and into a another world hallowed by raindrops, and sodden leaves, and fallen insects.
Then he took the wooden stairs, through the front door and into a another world hallowed by raindrops, and sodden leaves, and fallen insects.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Concerning Packing
Friday, April the Ninth. Rain was flushing worms from beneath the sidewalk and coldly drowning them in puddles.
Kevin realized with detached bemusement that he didn’t care about anything in the house enough to take it with him and skipped packing. Changed his mind when he got downstairs and, for reason unclear, grabbed a kitchen knife. Michael Meyers style, still in its cardboard sheath, a condensed homage to the meticulousness of his mother. He looked through the hallway into the living room, where he could see the top of her head and protruding feet asleep on the couch. Despite being close to the flickering gas fireplace, she had an afghan pulled around her shoulders, half draped on the floor.
Some tentative emotion, a tobacco smoke wisp lingering but for a moment, rippled through his soul like a pebble thrown into a pool. It was an incongruous sense of affection. He had never really felt that he loved his mother; she was a sort of necessary character, background, neither Yin nor Yang, and Love was a word his dictionary couldn’t explain. To be honest, he never felt that he knew her.
Then the knife felt real in his hand again. His eyes focused on the blade, and with a deliberate movement he slid it beneath his coat and slipped quietly out the door.
Kevin realized with detached bemusement that he didn’t care about anything in the house enough to take it with him and skipped packing. Changed his mind when he got downstairs and, for reason unclear, grabbed a kitchen knife. Michael Meyers style, still in its cardboard sheath, a condensed homage to the meticulousness of his mother. He looked through the hallway into the living room, where he could see the top of her head and protruding feet asleep on the couch. Despite being close to the flickering gas fireplace, she had an afghan pulled around her shoulders, half draped on the floor.
Some tentative emotion, a tobacco smoke wisp lingering but for a moment, rippled through his soul like a pebble thrown into a pool. It was an incongruous sense of affection. He had never really felt that he loved his mother; she was a sort of necessary character, background, neither Yin nor Yang, and Love was a word his dictionary couldn’t explain. To be honest, he never felt that he knew her.
Then the knife felt real in his hand again. His eyes focused on the blade, and with a deliberate movement he slid it beneath his coat and slipped quietly out the door.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Concerning the Rain
Rain-stirred consciousness, an expanding ringlet moving out away from the shore into infinity from a single droplet of water. Waking to the realization that the gentle scratching was not the liquescence of his mind, but rainwater rolling down the window-pane. Glaring into red alpha-numerics burning his retina. Scarce after four PM.
He sat up slowly, palm wiping a face waxy and plasticine, and moved to the window to gaze into a brick landscape blurred by waterspots and crowded grey skies.
How many times had he woken this way? Seventeen years worth of nights, and mornings, and afternoons, each movement blurred into the next until the line where an end became another beginning vanished altogether, leaving just a series of one-act plays. How pathetic it all seemed from this vantage at the threshold of a hangover, where clarity was ironically often its most salient. How long would he remain here, just getting by in empty existence doping up in this bedroom in his parents’ house? Every passing motion an immolation to Hopelessness. Sooner or later it would come to a breaking point; he knew it was just a matter of time. He needed to get the hell out of here before that.
But Ivy was right. He did need someone. He didn’t want to do it alone, a paradigm shift he recognized with as crystalline certainty as he saw the world through the rain-washed window. Admitting it frightened him, but he knew more surely than he could know anything that he didn’t want to be anywhere without her.
He sat up slowly, palm wiping a face waxy and plasticine, and moved to the window to gaze into a brick landscape blurred by waterspots and crowded grey skies.
How many times had he woken this way? Seventeen years worth of nights, and mornings, and afternoons, each movement blurred into the next until the line where an end became another beginning vanished altogether, leaving just a series of one-act plays. How pathetic it all seemed from this vantage at the threshold of a hangover, where clarity was ironically often its most salient. How long would he remain here, just getting by in empty existence doping up in this bedroom in his parents’ house? Every passing motion an immolation to Hopelessness. Sooner or later it would come to a breaking point; he knew it was just a matter of time. He needed to get the hell out of here before that.
But Ivy was right. He did need someone. He didn’t want to do it alone, a paradigm shift he recognized with as crystalline certainty as he saw the world through the rain-washed window. Admitting it frightened him, but he knew more surely than he could know anything that he didn’t want to be anywhere without her.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Concerning the Spared Rod
When he was younger Kevin once made a mistake and thoughtlessly swore. He couldn’t remember if it were an accident or just something he’d picked up on the street, repeated in a child’s mindless parroting. It didn’t really matter: his father’s retribution was swift. Blasphemy of the Spirit will not be forgiven.
And Kevin was stretched, shirtless, between the doorposts, and his father read from Isaiah in the Bible over the tumult of Kevin’s tears and wails for forgiveness, for mercy.
“By His stripes are we healed.”
By Kevin’s stripes the child is redeemed before his God, and by a brown leather belt are those stripes carved like a painter flinging his brush at the canvas. Above his head, a crucifix looking on with sorrow. Below, welts blossoming on the canvas like red roses, or the thin trickle of blood licking the needle in the crook of the elbow, and the brief grimace of morphine and vein in coitus. Spare the rod, condemn the child.
And Kevin was stretched, shirtless, between the doorposts, and his father read from Isaiah in the Bible over the tumult of Kevin’s tears and wails for forgiveness, for mercy.
“By His stripes are we healed.”
By Kevin’s stripes the child is redeemed before his God, and by a brown leather belt are those stripes carved like a painter flinging his brush at the canvas. Above his head, a crucifix looking on with sorrow. Below, welts blossoming on the canvas like red roses, or the thin trickle of blood licking the needle in the crook of the elbow, and the brief grimace of morphine and vein in coitus. Spare the rod, condemn the child.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Concerning Fire, People and Beignets
Kevin traded her a clove cigarette when she returned with a plate of pastries and coffee refill, and they sat a few moments sharing the serene silence of warm company. “You don’t look so well,” Ivy finally observed, tapping ash and pushing her glasses back up her nose.
“Bad dream,” Kevin said, biting into a beignet gingerly. “Didn’t sleep well last night.”
Ivy was aware of his attempts at coping, but while he never felt judged or condemned by her he was reluctant to allude to it. “Addiction” was another word they didn’t mention much. He wondered sometimes, feeling blasphemous just doing so, if maybe she just didn’t know what to say.
“Like that’s new,” Ivy responded. Then she added, “Not that I’ve stones to throw. I spent all night dreaming I was reading a magazine. How stupid is that?”
Kevin smiled. She could always make him smile effortlessly. “I just need to get out of here,” he brooded.
“So I’ve heard.”
“I mean it.”
“You know I would do anything to help you.”
“You can’t,” he answered, not unkindly. “I wish I had those kinds of problems.”
“No one can do it on their own, Kevin. Even healthy people, and you know what I mean by that. It’s a structure built into our psychology.” She took a draught of coffee as though it were her wellspring of inspiration. “Look, perhaps you should view it as fire. For all its destructive genius it can be friendly, and that friendliness we depend on. Whether by carbon or electric, we need it to see, to be warm. Maybe we just stress over the definition too much. But that’s why we have people.”
Kevin stubbed out his cigarette. “Tell that to God.”
“Bad dream,” Kevin said, biting into a beignet gingerly. “Didn’t sleep well last night.”
Ivy was aware of his attempts at coping, but while he never felt judged or condemned by her he was reluctant to allude to it. “Addiction” was another word they didn’t mention much. He wondered sometimes, feeling blasphemous just doing so, if maybe she just didn’t know what to say.
“Like that’s new,” Ivy responded. Then she added, “Not that I’ve stones to throw. I spent all night dreaming I was reading a magazine. How stupid is that?”
Kevin smiled. She could always make him smile effortlessly. “I just need to get out of here,” he brooded.
“So I’ve heard.”
“I mean it.”
“You know I would do anything to help you.”
“You can’t,” he answered, not unkindly. “I wish I had those kinds of problems.”
“No one can do it on their own, Kevin. Even healthy people, and you know what I mean by that. It’s a structure built into our psychology.” She took a draught of coffee as though it were her wellspring of inspiration. “Look, perhaps you should view it as fire. For all its destructive genius it can be friendly, and that friendliness we depend on. Whether by carbon or electric, we need it to see, to be warm. Maybe we just stress over the definition too much. But that’s why we have people.”
Kevin stubbed out his cigarette. “Tell that to God.”
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Concerning du Monde
The mid-morning crowd was sparse, a handful of suits sipping espresso absently over newspapers and the occasional college kid with a wan hangover smile. Ivy must have seen him out there in a sea of blank white tables. It wasn’t long before she appeared with a cup of coffee on a tray, sloshed brown stains crawling down the side of the ceramic. She was accompanied by a gangling guy in a green smock.
“Thank you, how did you know?” Kevin said.
“You develop a nose for these things,” Ivy replied with a smile that would make angels renounce their vow. “This is Andrew. He’s from Dublin.”
“Ireland?”
“Ohio. Like Wendy’s,” Andrew said.
Ivy explained, “I’m training him.”
She was thin, petite, face blessed with a cowl of dark hair and green cat eyes. Kevin was in love with her in ways that only the wholly lonely can know, “the deep, unutterable woe which none save exiles feel,” as Aytoun put it. Something he was also unable to express; it wasn’t a language he felt comfortable with, and he was never able to dispel the feeling of undeserving to be around her. Somewhere, he knew that she loved him too. He wasn’t brave enough to probe the how.
“I’ve a break in about fifteen,” Ivy said. “Have you had breakfast?”
Kevin gave a look that indicated he wasn’t familiar with the word.
“That’s what I thought. You look like you could use a beignet.”
“Thank you, how did you know?” Kevin said.
“You develop a nose for these things,” Ivy replied with a smile that would make angels renounce their vow. “This is Andrew. He’s from Dublin.”
“Ireland?”
“Ohio. Like Wendy’s,” Andrew said.
Ivy explained, “I’m training him.”
She was thin, petite, face blessed with a cowl of dark hair and green cat eyes. Kevin was in love with her in ways that only the wholly lonely can know, “the deep, unutterable woe which none save exiles feel,” as Aytoun put it. Something he was also unable to express; it wasn’t a language he felt comfortable with, and he was never able to dispel the feeling of undeserving to be around her. Somewhere, he knew that she loved him too. He wasn’t brave enough to probe the how.
“I’ve a break in about fifteen,” Ivy said. “Have you had breakfast?”
Kevin gave a look that indicated he wasn’t familiar with the word.
“That’s what I thought. You look like you could use a beignet.”
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Concerning the Cafe
Café du Monde, but not THAT Café du Monde. The place tried to style itself after the best parts of New Orleans gothic nostalgia, but the point where they truly succeeded was in the vitriolic coffee and immortal atmosphere.
Kevin went here as frequently as he was able, partly for the coffee, beignet and ambience, but mostly because he knew a waitress. He would never frame it to her in these words, but Ivy remained his haven, lighthouse, the thread that kept him from plummeting absolutely. He was afraid that even this hold was too tenuous, despite her consistent attempts at reassurance. He had few other friends. Mostly his father disapproved of everyone.
Poorly clad against the wet spring chill this morning, a black pea-coat he’d grabbed on his way from the house over a t-shirt, he stepped over the iron rail and helped himself to an empty table. It was beyond his routine, it had become a sort of intimacy, birthed ideally amid the nostalgia the café attempted to appropriate. They had first met as he had seated himself in her section.
Mirrored pools of rainwater lingered in low spots in the concrete, floating leaves blown in over the wall before dawn. Kevin emptied a puddle from the peeling metal chair beneath a green awning, clearing as much of the water as he could before he sat.
Kevin went here as frequently as he was able, partly for the coffee, beignet and ambience, but mostly because he knew a waitress. He would never frame it to her in these words, but Ivy remained his haven, lighthouse, the thread that kept him from plummeting absolutely. He was afraid that even this hold was too tenuous, despite her consistent attempts at reassurance. He had few other friends. Mostly his father disapproved of everyone.
Poorly clad against the wet spring chill this morning, a black pea-coat he’d grabbed on his way from the house over a t-shirt, he stepped over the iron rail and helped himself to an empty table. It was beyond his routine, it had become a sort of intimacy, birthed ideally amid the nostalgia the café attempted to appropriate. They had first met as he had seated himself in her section.
Mirrored pools of rainwater lingered in low spots in the concrete, floating leaves blown in over the wall before dawn. Kevin emptied a puddle from the peeling metal chair beneath a green awning, clearing as much of the water as he could before he sat.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Concerning Christmas, pt 3
Snapshot. The eyes of the Ghost boring into his, at once empty and intense, withering and weary. It was a day that had not come. If age brings anything, it’s the asphalt of reality, destroying the simplicity the child presumes of the world, slowly bleeding that intense creative spark into apathy.
Snapshot. And suddenly he’s aware that he’s awake, conscious, writhed in a scarecrow heap on the bed. He jerked spasmodically upright, hearing the dull glass sound of a tumbler bouncing on the carpet. He rolls off the bed, pulls himself up on the age-worn oaken desk. Fingers brush the pocked surface, coming to a deep furrow, a gash gouged deeply into the wood. He lingers but a moment, then propels himself to the window, now open and breathing in cool fresh air and urban white noise.
“They were all pretty much the same,” he intones softly. “They were all. . . . pretty much the same . . . . .”
Snapshot. And suddenly he’s aware that he’s awake, conscious, writhed in a scarecrow heap on the bed. He jerked spasmodically upright, hearing the dull glass sound of a tumbler bouncing on the carpet. He rolls off the bed, pulls himself up on the age-worn oaken desk. Fingers brush the pocked surface, coming to a deep furrow, a gash gouged deeply into the wood. He lingers but a moment, then propels himself to the window, now open and breathing in cool fresh air and urban white noise.
“They were all pretty much the same,” he intones softly. “They were all. . . . pretty much the same . . . . .”
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Concerning Christmas, pt2
" Pirouetting, face wet with tears and sweat, he collides with a little oaken desk, the impact scattering crayons, markers, hallowed implements of a child’s embryonic creativity. In one swift moment he grasps the little black scissors, sets his palm flat against the desktop and with all his juvenile strength slams the scissors through into the wood.
Blood spits up like a tiny volcano, and the electric pain is a key in a lock. Now something on the outside matches the ravaging within, and it’s indistinguishable from which the shrieks generate.
The Spirit reminds him of an epiphany that night. It poured into his mind as though the blood on the desk had left a vacuum that immediately began to fill, and he realized that one day, he would kill his father."
Blood spits up like a tiny volcano, and the electric pain is a key in a lock. Now something on the outside matches the ravaging within, and it’s indistinguishable from which the shrieks generate.
The Spirit reminds him of an epiphany that night. It poured into his mind as though the blood on the desk had left a vacuum that immediately began to fill, and he realized that one day, he would kill his father."
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Concerning a Christmas
Snapshot. The Ghost of Christmas Past, floating ephemerally like a dandelion on the breeze, hovers beside a smaller version of himself struggling to open a bedroom window warped with age and painted closed. The muffled sounds of Elvis having a blue-hoo-hoo Christmas creep underneath the door, but he’s not alone. Mingled is the incoherent but distinct chorus of violent argument somewhere below. It is from this the child is trying to escape, casting furtive glances at the door as though a creature of horror would be upon him at any moment.
He whirls away from the window, ears ringing with an acrid slap rising through the carpeted floor and a sharp wail of pain. He spins tight circles, hands on ears, mouth open in a scream but nothing comes, nothing but the cries beginning below.
He whirls away from the window, ears ringing with an acrid slap rising through the carpeted floor and a sharp wail of pain. He spins tight circles, hands on ears, mouth open in a scream but nothing comes, nothing but the cries beginning below.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Concerning the Canvas
Flame so blue it was almost translucent spread slowly like a cat licking her lips, tiny mercurial droplets speeding down the glass like flaming seraphs. Kevin blew the wave out with a thin curl of smoke.
They say you get to a point, cross some line like overcoming a threshold and you no longer feel the pain, just hear the leaden impact against a body you cling to the remembrance is yours. That’s a trifle deceptive. You don’t feel, because all you feel is a wall of pain. It’s like throwing paint on a canvas – it’s vibrant at first, stark as the color bifurcates the dusty white of the canvas, but after a time there is no more white, you’re just adding color on top of the same color.
They say you get to a point, cross some line like overcoming a threshold and you no longer feel the pain, just hear the leaden impact against a body you cling to the remembrance is yours. That’s a trifle deceptive. You don’t feel, because all you feel is a wall of pain. It’s like throwing paint on a canvas – it’s vibrant at first, stark as the color bifurcates the dusty white of the canvas, but after a time there is no more white, you’re just adding color on top of the same color.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Concerning a Certain Birth
Kevin had survived an abortion. This was not his choosing.
He had often been told that, respectively, God had some divine, ineffable purpose for his life, or his own inner consciousness had even in nascence asserted itself in Herculean manner. One was so much abysmal, relative hope in the face of evidence, and for that matter, God no longer held credibility either.
Even now he looked as if he’d carried that mantle of death for seventeen years; consumptive, pale, eyes like a sunken grave, scarred more ways than one and prone to inexhaustible nightmares.
He had developed a way to counter them, like he had the physical side to pain. It involved a tumbler of absinthe, a cube of sugar and a dollop of pills, all coruscated by a simple Blue Tip match.
His father violently threw things like this out when he caught him, like he treated everything. Said he was going to hell. He was wrong though. This was hell.
He had often been told that, respectively, God had some divine, ineffable purpose for his life, or his own inner consciousness had even in nascence asserted itself in Herculean manner. One was so much abysmal, relative hope in the face of evidence, and for that matter, God no longer held credibility either.
Even now he looked as if he’d carried that mantle of death for seventeen years; consumptive, pale, eyes like a sunken grave, scarred more ways than one and prone to inexhaustible nightmares.
He had developed a way to counter them, like he had the physical side to pain. It involved a tumbler of absinthe, a cube of sugar and a dollop of pills, all coruscated by a simple Blue Tip match.
His father violently threw things like this out when he caught him, like he treated everything. Said he was going to hell. He was wrong though. This was hell.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Intermission
Thanks to all of our listeners. We will be starting a new twisted tale this month, having wrapped up Chiaroscuro, so stay tuned. This week however, taking a short break. Be sure to visit the rest of port-evenus.com for more tales and excitement.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Concerning the Music
Out of the midst of nowhere Taylor remembered Eric. He looked about desperately. Eric. There he was, by the cairn. Taylor could see his brother had been wounded, moving waving like a fish trapped on the bank. He had to reach him, had to help him He pulled himself to his feet.
Taylor stumbled, fell on a picnic table. He tried to drag himself across it, leaving a crimson painting. Eric was dying, he knew it. What he had wanted just an hour ago, and yet all the hatred he’d felt was washed away like so many times before in a wave of feeling beyond explanation. They were closer than brothers, and that transcended rules and where the rules fractured. Taylor tried to save him. But he was tired, his own time running. So tired. He made it to the cairn, and collapsed.
Funnily, the Music cleared.
copyright 2011 BPLtd.
Taylor stumbled, fell on a picnic table. He tried to drag himself across it, leaving a crimson painting. Eric was dying, he knew it. What he had wanted just an hour ago, and yet all the hatred he’d felt was washed away like so many times before in a wave of feeling beyond explanation. They were closer than brothers, and that transcended rules and where the rules fractured. Taylor tried to save him. But he was tired, his own time running. So tired. He made it to the cairn, and collapsed.
Funnily, the Music cleared.
copyright 2011 BPLtd.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Concerning the Rest Stop, pt2
Taylor looked at him a moment, then rubbed his nose. “Ride the dead horse,” he said.
The haircut sighed. “What I was afraid of. Reeve?”
Reeve went to grab him. Taylor jerked the knife from him pocket, slinging it open by the blade, twirling it through his fingers and slashing backwards. He caught Reeve cross the chest, just a shallow laceration, before someone else grabbed his arm. He kicked out wildly, hitting something that grunted in pain, then twisted his wrist back, gouging the knife into the hand that held him. The haircut drove a fist into his solar plexus. Gasping, the knife pulled from his hand, kicking forward again, shoving himself and Reeve backwards off the haircut’s chest, trying to pull away, and then another gut punch, and hot white lightning scorched through the bottom of his mouth like he’d just bitten a high voltage wire. The knife had gone through his bottom palate, the base of his throat.
Reeve let him go. Taylor opened and closed his mouth, choking on the blood flowing down his throat. His glasses -- it seemed such a startlingly mundane thing to notice -- hand come loose in the scuffle, and dangled over one ear. He took a step back, tried to fix his eyewear.
Sky. Focus. Trees, green. Reeve, now in vision. Focus. Reeve pulling a gun from his jacket, now cut open and red staining his shirt. Focus. Muzzle flash, a roar. Pain. Focus. Gunshot. Pieces of his own chest flying into his vision, splatter on his lenses. Focus. He dropped to his knees in the grass.
Aware, still aware, of Reeve putting away the gun, the haircut considering him dispassionately, and the trio left, left him there, vanishing from sight.
The haircut sighed. “What I was afraid of. Reeve?”
Reeve went to grab him. Taylor jerked the knife from him pocket, slinging it open by the blade, twirling it through his fingers and slashing backwards. He caught Reeve cross the chest, just a shallow laceration, before someone else grabbed his arm. He kicked out wildly, hitting something that grunted in pain, then twisted his wrist back, gouging the knife into the hand that held him. The haircut drove a fist into his solar plexus. Gasping, the knife pulled from his hand, kicking forward again, shoving himself and Reeve backwards off the haircut’s chest, trying to pull away, and then another gut punch, and hot white lightning scorched through the bottom of his mouth like he’d just bitten a high voltage wire. The knife had gone through his bottom palate, the base of his throat.
Reeve let him go. Taylor opened and closed his mouth, choking on the blood flowing down his throat. His glasses -- it seemed such a startlingly mundane thing to notice -- hand come loose in the scuffle, and dangled over one ear. He took a step back, tried to fix his eyewear.
Sky. Focus. Trees, green. Reeve, now in vision. Focus. Reeve pulling a gun from his jacket, now cut open and red staining his shirt. Focus. Muzzle flash, a roar. Pain. Focus. Gunshot. Pieces of his own chest flying into his vision, splatter on his lenses. Focus. He dropped to his knees in the grass.
Aware, still aware, of Reeve putting away the gun, the haircut considering him dispassionately, and the trio left, left him there, vanishing from sight.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Concerning The Rest Stop
Shadows falling, rising, bobbing to footfalls. Three men overtook him. “Hey man, long time no see!”
Taylor stopped, looked at them blankly.
The cheerful one had ratty brown hair, that I-don’t-care-about-much-never-mind-my-hundred-dollar-haircut look. “Where you going, man?”
“Salvation,” Taylor said.
“Listen, Eric, we need to talk, man.”
“Fuck Eric.”
The orthadontal smile fell. “What?”
“I’m not Eric. We just look alike, and Eric can fucking take care of his own shit now.”
“Excuse me?”
“No Eric. Just me.”
The haircut turned to one of the others. “Reeve. Is this who you dealt with or not?”
“Yeah. Little scruffier now, maybe.”
“So what’s your game, mister?”
Taylor sighed. “Look, I don’t care if Brutus here believes I’m Santa Claus, alright? We just look alike, and I’m not here to clean up after him.”
“Heart-rending. We, however, are, so if you’d be kind enough to either produce my money or my merchandise, I’ve other things to do today, right?”
“Told you. Not Eric. Don’t have your junk, man.”
The hair swished as the head bent toward the ground. “Look, this is a serious career, okay? I can’t let any exceptions, else the whole thing crumbles, you understand? So what’s it gonna be?”
Taylor stopped, looked at them blankly.
The cheerful one had ratty brown hair, that I-don’t-care-about-much-never-mind-my-hundred-dollar-haircut look. “Where you going, man?”
“Salvation,” Taylor said.
“Listen, Eric, we need to talk, man.”
“Fuck Eric.”
The orthadontal smile fell. “What?”
“I’m not Eric. We just look alike, and Eric can fucking take care of his own shit now.”
“Excuse me?”
“No Eric. Just me.”
The haircut turned to one of the others. “Reeve. Is this who you dealt with or not?”
“Yeah. Little scruffier now, maybe.”
“So what’s your game, mister?”
Taylor sighed. “Look, I don’t care if Brutus here believes I’m Santa Claus, alright? We just look alike, and I’m not here to clean up after him.”
“Heart-rending. We, however, are, so if you’d be kind enough to either produce my money or my merchandise, I’ve other things to do today, right?”
“Told you. Not Eric. Don’t have your junk, man.”
The hair swished as the head bent toward the ground. “Look, this is a serious career, okay? I can’t let any exceptions, else the whole thing crumbles, you understand? So what’s it gonna be?”
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Concerning the Exit
He stopped his telic hike only for a diner somewhere off of Highway 7, where three-fifty was too much for a dismal hero. It was the first food he’d eaten in an indeterminable while, and he promptly threw it up. He guessed that’s what happened to people with Problems. Either way, it seemed the only exit the sandwich deserved.
Trudging on. Gravel beneath his boots, asphalt crumbles, valiant grass stalks, glass and garbage. Vehicles whizzing past with the sound of a cough. The shoulder widened out to a grassy roadside rest, small pavilion with a picnic table and cairn with a plaque honoring someone obscure. Taylor unconsciously moved from the ditch and into the grass, staring at his feet, staring at nothing. Trudging on. Leaving. Escape. Salvation. Redemption. The gravel-meets-rubber sound of a car pulling to a stop. Oblivious. Kept walking.
“Eric!”
To hell with Eric.
“Eric!!”
Eric lied, severed the bond, the sacred seal that bound, tied beyond temporal understanding for something as ephemeral as money.
“Hey! Eric!”
Eric was on his own now.
Trudging on. Gravel beneath his boots, asphalt crumbles, valiant grass stalks, glass and garbage. Vehicles whizzing past with the sound of a cough. The shoulder widened out to a grassy roadside rest, small pavilion with a picnic table and cairn with a plaque honoring someone obscure. Taylor unconsciously moved from the ditch and into the grass, staring at his feet, staring at nothing. Trudging on. Leaving. Escape. Salvation. Redemption. The gravel-meets-rubber sound of a car pulling to a stop. Oblivious. Kept walking.
“Eric!”
To hell with Eric.
“Eric!!”
Eric lied, severed the bond, the sacred seal that bound, tied beyond temporal understanding for something as ephemeral as money.
“Hey! Eric!”
Eric was on his own now.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Concerning the Blind Man
The sempiternal blind man was on the steps, once again in tune to some clock independent of the sun. Taylor stopped. “Do you know daylight and shadow?” he asked. “I mean, how do you know it’s day?”
The musician quit playing, and stared in the direction of the voice. “They say that people with no eyes can see things from another sense,” he said after a moment. “It’s a crock of shit, kid, makes ‘em feel better ‘bout themselves. But my grandmother, she always said that Love and Hate were twin babies, sep’rated at birth, and yet still sometimes blendin’ together as they can’t deny the truth of their union. And they know each other as you know ‘em. Daylight’s about like that.”
“Oh.” Digested that. “I wondered.”
“How did you know it, kid? Light refracting on the retina all there is to it, man? Or is it deeper? What is light?”
Taylor considered. “Twin babes,” he said. “Recognition.”
The blind man grinned like the sun, and began to play again. Taylor walked on, toward the end of the city.
The musician quit playing, and stared in the direction of the voice. “They say that people with no eyes can see things from another sense,” he said after a moment. “It’s a crock of shit, kid, makes ‘em feel better ‘bout themselves. But my grandmother, she always said that Love and Hate were twin babies, sep’rated at birth, and yet still sometimes blendin’ together as they can’t deny the truth of their union. And they know each other as you know ‘em. Daylight’s about like that.”
“Oh.” Digested that. “I wondered.”
“How did you know it, kid? Light refracting on the retina all there is to it, man? Or is it deeper? What is light?”
Taylor considered. “Twin babes,” he said. “Recognition.”
The blind man grinned like the sun, and began to play again. Taylor walked on, toward the end of the city.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Concerning the Apartment
When Taylor awoke, back in the apartment, the light was the sort of hazy amber dimness that contributes both to somnolence and bad movie sex scenes. Indistinguishable whether dawn or dusk.
He also found another placid envelope.
He kept reciting to himself how he really didn’t give a shit what Eric thought or wanted anymore, kept chanting it the entire time he slit it open with the matte knife.
“There’s been a slight mistake with some vendibles,” it read, “but not one beyond restitution. Unfortunately I am indisposed, and thus I am in need of you to cover for me, much as I regret doing so. But you are my brother, more than my brother, and one who I can trust.”
Bastard. Well Taylor was tired of covering for him. Brothers. If he thought Taylor would apologize for Eric’s consumer screw-ups, tried to plead recompense, he could go swimming in Sheol.
He was sick. Sick of Eric, sick of the apartment, sick of the city, sick of his life. It was like a room full of oppressive bacteria, hundreds of poisoned people coughing and sneezing and vomiting, and he frantically trying to find pockets of clean air, pockets which did not exist. The only way to keep from joining them was to leave the room.
And let Eric take care of his own problems for once. They may have had a tie, but it was in sore repair now.
He didn’t even bother to pack what little he owned, just threw some things into his coat pockets, locked the door, and walked out.
He also found another placid envelope.
He kept reciting to himself how he really didn’t give a shit what Eric thought or wanted anymore, kept chanting it the entire time he slit it open with the matte knife.
“There’s been a slight mistake with some vendibles,” it read, “but not one beyond restitution. Unfortunately I am indisposed, and thus I am in need of you to cover for me, much as I regret doing so. But you are my brother, more than my brother, and one who I can trust.”
Bastard. Well Taylor was tired of covering for him. Brothers. If he thought Taylor would apologize for Eric’s consumer screw-ups, tried to plead recompense, he could go swimming in Sheol.
He was sick. Sick of Eric, sick of the apartment, sick of the city, sick of his life. It was like a room full of oppressive bacteria, hundreds of poisoned people coughing and sneezing and vomiting, and he frantically trying to find pockets of clean air, pockets which did not exist. The only way to keep from joining them was to leave the room.
And let Eric take care of his own problems for once. They may have had a tie, but it was in sore repair now.
He didn’t even bother to pack what little he owned, just threw some things into his coat pockets, locked the door, and walked out.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Concerning the Tombstone
Wet footprints absorbing rainwater, pooling in from the marred sod. Taylor’s sprint-gouged puddles in the moist cemetery grass, marking his path back to the grave-site. Fittingly, it had begun to rain again, not in the contumelious volume of before, but the patient, dogmatic drizzle intent on saturation.
Hunting, dodging amongst the headstones, a revenant on some desperate haunt, finally coming to one where the ground was still muddy clay, bullet-marks of splattered mud staining the lower half. Taylor wiped a mass of streaming hair from his eyes with a film of water, squatting by the granite. He felt he knew something coming he couldn’t catch, like Scrooge’s apprehension in the cemetery of Christmas Future. He tried to brush the defacing muddy water from a simple inscription, two dates and a name, and then he knew.
There was Russell’s name.
His name. Taylor’s name. Seldom used, seldom required, as it was just a connotation to something that no longer existed for him, a universe as completely foreign as bucolic Americana.
Apart from Russell.
And here was Russell.
He had wondered why everyone kept bringing up their remorse like it mattered to him, and now he remembered why.
His brother. How was it he could have forgotten? Easily enough, but only through Eric. And suddenly it hit him, like he had been trying to hold shut the bulging closet door and it overcame. Eric lied. He had betrayed Russell, and then lied about its relevance. Eric deceived him, took advantage of his problems, kept him emotionless for personal gain. Used him. He had transgressed the spiritual bond, severed the link in selfishness. Closer than brothers, he said. Family didn’t lie, cheat or steal. Eric was a bastard.
Hatred, hot and argent, flowed through him, following by an deluge of childish bewilderment, confusion, a feeling of hurt isolation. The bond, the line was gone, like a mooring snapping from the ship, and Taylor knew he was alone. Everything he knew was a lie, faced alone.
He fell into the tombstone, crushing the few burdened flowers, and cried, when he wasn’t laughing.
Hunting, dodging amongst the headstones, a revenant on some desperate haunt, finally coming to one where the ground was still muddy clay, bullet-marks of splattered mud staining the lower half. Taylor wiped a mass of streaming hair from his eyes with a film of water, squatting by the granite. He felt he knew something coming he couldn’t catch, like Scrooge’s apprehension in the cemetery of Christmas Future. He tried to brush the defacing muddy water from a simple inscription, two dates and a name, and then he knew.
There was Russell’s name.
His name. Taylor’s name. Seldom used, seldom required, as it was just a connotation to something that no longer existed for him, a universe as completely foreign as bucolic Americana.
Apart from Russell.
And here was Russell.
He had wondered why everyone kept bringing up their remorse like it mattered to him, and now he remembered why.
His brother. How was it he could have forgotten? Easily enough, but only through Eric. And suddenly it hit him, like he had been trying to hold shut the bulging closet door and it overcame. Eric lied. He had betrayed Russell, and then lied about its relevance. Eric deceived him, took advantage of his problems, kept him emotionless for personal gain. Used him. He had transgressed the spiritual bond, severed the link in selfishness. Closer than brothers, he said. Family didn’t lie, cheat or steal. Eric was a bastard.
Hatred, hot and argent, flowed through him, following by an deluge of childish bewilderment, confusion, a feeling of hurt isolation. The bond, the line was gone, like a mooring snapping from the ship, and Taylor knew he was alone. Everything he knew was a lie, faced alone.
He fell into the tombstone, crushing the few burdened flowers, and cried, when he wasn’t laughing.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Concerning the Revelation
“It is tragic, you know, how selfish this business has become. This sort of activity seems to be happening more frequently. The system is deteriorating. Somebody actually threatened an associate of mine for his supply. That’s a breach of etiquette! Amateurs flood the business, one would think. Either way, someone will eventually find HIM. One day. And, it will catch up with our dear Renfield. Maybe he’ll even be the third party. You know how that works.”
“What?”
“Double-crossed on a deal, left to take the fall.”
“I was just hit. On the head.”
“Yes, but your own supply dealt one of those, did he not? And thus the funeral.”
Taylor started to speak, but his mind gave a sort of mechanical whir, hovering just above an actual click. He remembered something Eric had said he felt disconcerting at the time, and then he had the kid raised by his shirt, slammed against the refrigerator. Something glass fell over inside.
“What?” he demanded.
There was a gurgle.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
The kid coughed. “Russell, of course. Of all people you should know. He got set up for a sale, and left to take them blame. No merchandise. Your supply collected.”
Eric. Personal is not the same as important. Russell created his own fate. Eric had fucked him, been directly responsible. Said it didn’t matter, it was Russell’s doing and shouldn’t concern them. But something else had yet to fall into place. . . .
He was so close he was almost frantic, didn’t feel himself pressing the kid into the door, tilting the refrigerator back. “What do you mean I should know?” he snapped. “ ‘Of all people,’ why me? I don’t even know MYSELF half the time! Why?!”
“Go. . . .where. . .you’ll. . .music. . . “
Screaming. “Where!!”
The kid desperately trying to pull himself away. “Ask. . . Grave. . .she . . . Knows . . . .all. . .”
“What?”
“Double-crossed on a deal, left to take the fall.”
“I was just hit. On the head.”
“Yes, but your own supply dealt one of those, did he not? And thus the funeral.”
Taylor started to speak, but his mind gave a sort of mechanical whir, hovering just above an actual click. He remembered something Eric had said he felt disconcerting at the time, and then he had the kid raised by his shirt, slammed against the refrigerator. Something glass fell over inside.
“What?” he demanded.
There was a gurgle.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
The kid coughed. “Russell, of course. Of all people you should know. He got set up for a sale, and left to take them blame. No merchandise. Your supply collected.”
Eric. Personal is not the same as important. Russell created his own fate. Eric had fucked him, been directly responsible. Said it didn’t matter, it was Russell’s doing and shouldn’t concern them. But something else had yet to fall into place. . . .
He was so close he was almost frantic, didn’t feel himself pressing the kid into the door, tilting the refrigerator back. “What do you mean I should know?” he snapped. “ ‘Of all people,’ why me? I don’t even know MYSELF half the time! Why?!”
“Go. . . .where. . .you’ll. . .music. . . “
Screaming. “Where!!”
The kid desperately trying to pull himself away. “Ask. . . Grave. . .she . . . Knows . . . .all. . .”
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Concerning the Asian
“It was. . . . Unfortunate about Russell,” he said, head vanished within a cabinet.
Taylor silently helped himself to a kitchen chair. He brought it up, let him finish it.
“I hope I conveyed my sympathies at the funeral.”
Taylor was mute. He had no recollection of the scene, but didn’t let it bother him.
“I also hope my advice was considered?” He shut the cabinet with a scowl, and after a pause went to another.
“Which was that?” Taylor asked, unable to play along anymore.
The kid found whatever he was looking for with a crow of moderate accomplishment. “This should be what you need. We’ll send someone after your material; no doubt it has changed many hands by now.”
He began to pour a glass of water while Taylor examined his parcel.
Taylor silently helped himself to a kitchen chair. He brought it up, let him finish it.
“I hope I conveyed my sympathies at the funeral.”
Taylor was mute. He had no recollection of the scene, but didn’t let it bother him.
“I also hope my advice was considered?” He shut the cabinet with a scowl, and after a pause went to another.
“Which was that?” Taylor asked, unable to play along anymore.
The kid found whatever he was looking for with a crow of moderate accomplishment. “This should be what you need. We’ll send someone after your material; no doubt it has changed many hands by now.”
He began to pour a glass of water while Taylor examined his parcel.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
In Interruption...
Due a family matter on the part of our producers, we regret there will be no broadcast this week. Enjoy the silence, contemplate, and stay tuned for next week
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Concerning the Sunlight
The rain had ceased, which was a boon. The sky was bright and gravid, dark spaces with bullet-holes of streaming sunlight and recumbent water still dripping and pooled about the ragged concrete. A chill breeze sauntered auspiciously, a tawdry phantom of something unworldly.
Taylor tried to save his eyes from the glare as he followed the paper scrap, each sparkling tear of former rain dancing a mariachi on his tender optic nerves. He was provoked at the back of his mind by a sense of familiarity, but was unable to capture. The sensation in itself was familiar, and when he focused on it he realized he had no memory of the journey in progress. He knew he had the memory -- it was just inaccessible for now.
The feeling was only alleviated when he knocked on the chosen door, and faced the Asian kid who lived downstairs.
Taylor tried to save his eyes from the glare as he followed the paper scrap, each sparkling tear of former rain dancing a mariachi on his tender optic nerves. He was provoked at the back of his mind by a sense of familiarity, but was unable to capture. The sensation in itself was familiar, and when he focused on it he realized he had no memory of the journey in progress. He knew he had the memory -- it was just inaccessible for now.
The feeling was only alleviated when he knocked on the chosen door, and faced the Asian kid who lived downstairs.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Concerning the Music
The outer room was unchanged when Taylor stumbled back into it; empty, overbearing in shades and an inattentive bartender. The music was still somewhere at the edge of hearing, but Taylor didn’t recognize what it was. Upon request the man with the paperback managed to scry out some Advil from behind the counter, at no charge. Never able to take pills dry, Taylor bought a drink.
He toyed with the glass a bit, watching the liquid swirl, trying to join thoughts. It wasn’t such a weighted matter, the loss of the Walkman and the manila envelope, Eric had left him with an address to call upon if ever something like this happened. It was sort of ineluctable really, human nature and the golden-egg-laying goose. No, now it was more trying to analyze the jagged edges of his existence and find a point where they formed a decent hole. The thing with bathrooms still bothered him. He could chalk it up to repeatedly bad experience, but it was the Music that drove him to further attention, and there was where his train of thought met with bandits.
Sometimes he almost thought he could hear it, he thought he knew that elusive thought or knowledge that he though -- or he knew he thought -- no, thought he almost knew what he was thinking, had the key to that locked room, like the radio signal only needed to get just a bit closer. Just on the tip of his tongue, metaphorically speaking. Had to keep at it.
And once more he felt his resolve to ride it out, stay abreast, be overwhelmed by the proportion of the wave, felt he had toppled off the board and went under.
With a sigh, he changed the thought-line. It was best to strike the task at hand while it was still hot, or whatever the simile was. He scoured his coat pockets for the scrap of paper holding the address -- the instructions thereof had long ago been shorn off and incinerated.
He left some money on the counter and exited.
He toyed with the glass a bit, watching the liquid swirl, trying to join thoughts. It wasn’t such a weighted matter, the loss of the Walkman and the manila envelope, Eric had left him with an address to call upon if ever something like this happened. It was sort of ineluctable really, human nature and the golden-egg-laying goose. No, now it was more trying to analyze the jagged edges of his existence and find a point where they formed a decent hole. The thing with bathrooms still bothered him. He could chalk it up to repeatedly bad experience, but it was the Music that drove him to further attention, and there was where his train of thought met with bandits.
Sometimes he almost thought he could hear it, he thought he knew that elusive thought or knowledge that he though -- or he knew he thought -- no, thought he almost knew what he was thinking, had the key to that locked room, like the radio signal only needed to get just a bit closer. Just on the tip of his tongue, metaphorically speaking. Had to keep at it.
And once more he felt his resolve to ride it out, stay abreast, be overwhelmed by the proportion of the wave, felt he had toppled off the board and went under.
With a sigh, he changed the thought-line. It was best to strike the task at hand while it was still hot, or whatever the simile was. He scoured his coat pockets for the scrap of paper holding the address -- the instructions thereof had long ago been shorn off and incinerated.
He left some money on the counter and exited.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Concerning the Bathroom, Again
Mary. It is unquestionably Mary. A slight loving smile on her Mona Lisa lips like affectionate amusement in her errant child, forgiving him for all the times he has screwed up and welcoming home despite. Unconditional. She is too good for him, and in the emotional rush he felt like crying.
And then something scratched along his synpase like fingers on a chalkboard. His head. Head. His. That was right. Somehow it had been disconnected from his neck, left just sitting on the stump like a pumpkin from Washington Irving. He forced his eyes open to bleak, uninteresting white with a shotgun pattern of black holes. Cold pedestal, cold white tile.
The bathroom, he realized gloomily. The cenotaph. They had left him in one of the stalls. “Build a summer home here,” he mumbled around the size of his tongue. His body had become liquescent; tried to stand, couldn’t remember how. Tried again, failed, and ended up pulling himself out of the stall and to the basin counter. A look in the mirror didn’t help; vertical motion seemed to fracture his brain like a kaleidoscope. “Sorry my ass,” he told the dismal, ravaged reflection. He ran some water, let it cool and tried to bathe his face and neck.
And then something scratched along his synpase like fingers on a chalkboard. His head. Head. His. That was right. Somehow it had been disconnected from his neck, left just sitting on the stump like a pumpkin from Washington Irving. He forced his eyes open to bleak, uninteresting white with a shotgun pattern of black holes. Cold pedestal, cold white tile.
The bathroom, he realized gloomily. The cenotaph. They had left him in one of the stalls. “Build a summer home here,” he mumbled around the size of his tongue. His body had become liquescent; tried to stand, couldn’t remember how. Tried again, failed, and ended up pulling himself out of the stall and to the basin counter. A look in the mirror didn’t help; vertical motion seemed to fracture his brain like a kaleidoscope. “Sorry my ass,” he told the dismal, ravaged reflection. He ran some water, let it cool and tried to bathe his face and neck.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Concerning the Note
Renfield didn’t appear to hurt at the snub, and anyway was still beaming like a pained clown. He moved to another topic. “So,” he said cheerfully, “you got the stuff?”
Renfield and his talents of subtlety were almost as depressing as Eric and his ideas of cloak-and-dagger.
Taylor affirmed, but kept his hand in his pocket. The scent of coriander floated as he moved.
Renfield pulled from the ample space in his bulky jacket a crumpled manila envelope. Only then did Taylor pass over the Walkman. He peered inside, absently noted the correct currency as he thumbed through it.
“Oh.” Renfield tugged something else from his pocket. “He also said to give you this.”
It was a folded note, trying to act as though it contained all the secrets of the universe that a man might agonize over, yet failing horribly. Taylor feared it would be more of Eric’s pseudo-philosophical crap. The man could be exhausting at times. What was it the poet had said? “To lose thee were to lose myself?” Some other literature but Eric found scintillating. Taylor thought it was Milton.
His paranoid senses screaming, he took the proffered note and unfolded it.
Simplicity seemed the tacit rule for underworld correspondence. It was almost depressing. A tersely scrawled “Sorry.”
Sorry? For what? Taylor started to protest.
And Renfield was smiling, and Taylor remembered Stanley, but couldn’t move fast enough, and then he was hurling like Lucifer into darkness, into harsh oblivion.
Renfield and his talents of subtlety were almost as depressing as Eric and his ideas of cloak-and-dagger.
Taylor affirmed, but kept his hand in his pocket. The scent of coriander floated as he moved.
Renfield pulled from the ample space in his bulky jacket a crumpled manila envelope. Only then did Taylor pass over the Walkman. He peered inside, absently noted the correct currency as he thumbed through it.
“Oh.” Renfield tugged something else from his pocket. “He also said to give you this.”
It was a folded note, trying to act as though it contained all the secrets of the universe that a man might agonize over, yet failing horribly. Taylor feared it would be more of Eric’s pseudo-philosophical crap. The man could be exhausting at times. What was it the poet had said? “To lose thee were to lose myself?” Some other literature but Eric found scintillating. Taylor thought it was Milton.
His paranoid senses screaming, he took the proffered note and unfolded it.
Simplicity seemed the tacit rule for underworld correspondence. It was almost depressing. A tersely scrawled “Sorry.”
Sorry? For what? Taylor started to protest.
And Renfield was smiling, and Taylor remembered Stanley, but couldn’t move fast enough, and then he was hurling like Lucifer into darkness, into harsh oblivion.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Concering the Bathroom, cont.
“I’m sorry about Russ, man,” Renfeild continued. “We all heard. Sucks.”
“Yeah,” Taylor said flatly. Eric had told him about it. The whole thing had been so beyond a set up it was almost karma. Russell had been a would-be dealer who succumbed to the city’s dark ecology, making the wrong mistakes in an anthropocentric business. What had happened was not their fault or concern. “A point of reality is determined by the perception of the consciousness,” Eric had inscribed in one of his bland envelopes. “As the consciousness is responsible for that which makes it into pronouns, so the reality, de facto, is subject to the point of perception. Therefore there are truths and matters whose fundamental worth is important only in the personal scale. Personal is not the same as important, the same as true reality is more empyreal due to tainted perception. However, we determine choices according to that perception, as Russell did. And his choice was flawed.”
There was something, Taylor seemed to recall, dealing with . . . . the past, or maybe it was about Taylor’s own search for completing, catching the rest of the Music. He couldn’t remember. It was connected somehow, but in a way that Eric seemed to think would be . . . . something good. . . .now, and it shouldn’t concern.
Whatever. Nevermind. Taylor thrust it aside with irritation. He trusted Eric, strange as he might be -- he had to. After all, Eric and he had a connection. They were closer than brothers.
“Yeah,” Taylor said flatly. Eric had told him about it. The whole thing had been so beyond a set up it was almost karma. Russell had been a would-be dealer who succumbed to the city’s dark ecology, making the wrong mistakes in an anthropocentric business. What had happened was not their fault or concern. “A point of reality is determined by the perception of the consciousness,” Eric had inscribed in one of his bland envelopes. “As the consciousness is responsible for that which makes it into pronouns, so the reality, de facto, is subject to the point of perception. Therefore there are truths and matters whose fundamental worth is important only in the personal scale. Personal is not the same as important, the same as true reality is more empyreal due to tainted perception. However, we determine choices according to that perception, as Russell did. And his choice was flawed.”
There was something, Taylor seemed to recall, dealing with . . . . the past, or maybe it was about Taylor’s own search for completing, catching the rest of the Music. He couldn’t remember. It was connected somehow, but in a way that Eric seemed to think would be . . . . something good. . . .now, and it shouldn’t concern.
Whatever. Nevermind. Taylor thrust it aside with irritation. He trusted Eric, strange as he might be -- he had to. After all, Eric and he had a connection. They were closer than brothers.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Concerning the Bathroom
The part of Taylor’s mind that wasn’t trying to reconcile the past few seconds was struck by the clinical feel of the bathroom again, the sparkling, antiseptic blues and whites and a lingering scent of cheap chemical floor-cleaner. He felt dizzy, and concentrated on not blacking out. He detoured at a sink, splashed some cold water into his eyes.
The third stall had a white “Out Of Order” sign. Taylor nudged it open to see merely an uninspiring toilet nestled in its generic corner. Renfield shouldered past him, motioning Taylor to follow.
Fighting that inevitable rush of claustrophobic nausea, he acquiesced and stepped into the stall. The clinical atmosphere of the bathroom was still excortiating his mind and nerves like a doomed fish, making him even more tense than usual. It coalesced with his dogmatic headache. Stanley and the Glock were little reassurance, and then something about a Renfield with more authority and initiative than his typical neophyte-courier aura. . . .
He tried to shove it beneath a mental carpet. Eric would just laugh, he knew, and the thought of that laughter wasn’t any more subtle than if it were vocal. Eric always said that just because change was uncomfortable and a complication didn’t mean it was an evil thing. Usually it was just sort of an ambivalence. And Taylor of all people should respect someone’s hidden evolution.
Eric was an ass when he climbed his philosophical horse.
He instinctively moved with his back to a wall. Renfield was grinning expansively like he’d just had the greatest moment of his life, a ridiculous urban scarecrow in the jacket too large for him and hair clutching at his face like a nightmare about dead tree branches.
“Sorry ‘bout that, man,” he said. “Security measures.” He giggled slightly.
Taylor didn’t feel it worth the effort to answer. He pushed his glasses back up his nose. The bathroom was stuffy and hot, and the day outside had not inspired him to dress for it. His headache was making him jumpy, fueled with the sundry of mental dust-bunnies trying to escape their carpet imprisonment. Paranoia was starting to creep up the back of his neck; he tried to nonchalantly press his back further into the wall.
The third stall had a white “Out Of Order” sign. Taylor nudged it open to see merely an uninspiring toilet nestled in its generic corner. Renfield shouldered past him, motioning Taylor to follow.
Fighting that inevitable rush of claustrophobic nausea, he acquiesced and stepped into the stall. The clinical atmosphere of the bathroom was still excortiating his mind and nerves like a doomed fish, making him even more tense than usual. It coalesced with his dogmatic headache. Stanley and the Glock were little reassurance, and then something about a Renfield with more authority and initiative than his typical neophyte-courier aura. . . .
He tried to shove it beneath a mental carpet. Eric would just laugh, he knew, and the thought of that laughter wasn’t any more subtle than if it were vocal. Eric always said that just because change was uncomfortable and a complication didn’t mean it was an evil thing. Usually it was just sort of an ambivalence. And Taylor of all people should respect someone’s hidden evolution.
Eric was an ass when he climbed his philosophical horse.
He instinctively moved with his back to a wall. Renfield was grinning expansively like he’d just had the greatest moment of his life, a ridiculous urban scarecrow in the jacket too large for him and hair clutching at his face like a nightmare about dead tree branches.
“Sorry ‘bout that, man,” he said. “Security measures.” He giggled slightly.
Taylor didn’t feel it worth the effort to answer. He pushed his glasses back up his nose. The bathroom was stuffy and hot, and the day outside had not inspired him to dress for it. His headache was making him jumpy, fueled with the sundry of mental dust-bunnies trying to escape their carpet imprisonment. Paranoia was starting to creep up the back of his neck; he tried to nonchalantly press his back further into the wall.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Concerning the Note
The paper was soggy from the wet jacket, the penciled words smudged. “3rd stall, Mens” it read, the style cramped and laborious. He wouldn’t wonder if a lot of effort had gone into it.
Taylor let it drop into his pocket, and fighting the irritation of a children’s game left the bar and Mary’s hospitality to the men's room across the floor. The barman barely glanced up as he passed.
He felt Renfeild’s eyes following as he pushed the door open, releasing the sound of running water, and a semi-automatic abruptly shoved beneath his chin.
He blinked a few times incomprehensibly, attempting to assimilate just what happened, and then someone bumped into him from behind. “Whoa, shit,” Renfeild said nervously, and yet containing a lilt of almost flippancy.
“Who’re you?” the gun ordered.
“It’s cool, man,” Renfeild said.
“Shut up.”
Goddamn Eric. “Screw this,” Taylor snapped, shoving the gun away. “I don’t have time for this shit.”
The next events snapped like a mechanical lock and then froze in a tableau that numbed the mind. Taylor started to shove his way past, and then the gun was pushed into his cheek. He reached to push it away again, and the hammer clicked back, and then suddenly a wicked black knife was behind the gunman’s ear, tilting his head over slightly.
The scene was held for about two seconds, two seconds that seemed infinitely longer. Then Renfeild softly intoned, “Will you please put down the gun, Stanley? This is Eric, he’s with me. And you do know me, right? I don’t advise nodding.”
Stanley grinned briefly, then slowly lowered the gun and deliberately slid it beneath his jacket. Only then did Renfeild remove the knife and cause it to disappear into the abysmal reaches of the leather coat. He motioned Taylor to advance, and patted Stanley’s shoulder as he moved past.
Taylor let it drop into his pocket, and fighting the irritation of a children’s game left the bar and Mary’s hospitality to the men's room across the floor. The barman barely glanced up as he passed.
He felt Renfeild’s eyes following as he pushed the door open, releasing the sound of running water, and a semi-automatic abruptly shoved beneath his chin.
He blinked a few times incomprehensibly, attempting to assimilate just what happened, and then someone bumped into him from behind. “Whoa, shit,” Renfeild said nervously, and yet containing a lilt of almost flippancy.
“Who’re you?” the gun ordered.
“It’s cool, man,” Renfeild said.
“Shut up.”
Goddamn Eric. “Screw this,” Taylor snapped, shoving the gun away. “I don’t have time for this shit.”
The next events snapped like a mechanical lock and then froze in a tableau that numbed the mind. Taylor started to shove his way past, and then the gun was pushed into his cheek. He reached to push it away again, and the hammer clicked back, and then suddenly a wicked black knife was behind the gunman’s ear, tilting his head over slightly.
The scene was held for about two seconds, two seconds that seemed infinitely longer. Then Renfeild softly intoned, “Will you please put down the gun, Stanley? This is Eric, he’s with me. And you do know me, right? I don’t advise nodding.”
Stanley grinned briefly, then slowly lowered the gun and deliberately slid it beneath his jacket. Only then did Renfeild remove the knife and cause it to disappear into the abysmal reaches of the leather coat. He motioned Taylor to advance, and patted Stanley’s shoulder as he moved past.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Concerning the Virgin and the Tyro
Out of the rain, and into the gaze of the Virgin Mary. Literally.
Taylor halted abruptly from pure surprise. The light shifted to show the statue, a very commendable rendition of the Madonna towering six feet tall over the bar, arms extended with palms toward the ceiling as though offering grace to whatever patrons would slough beneath. Which at the moment comprised himself. The proprietor was at a table in the rear, reading a paperback.
Taylor took a stool between the hands and beneath the affectionate gaze of half-closed eyes. He pulled a bowl of M&Ms closer, and began to absently chew.
Somewhere, just filtering beyond the range of aural distinction, a radio was playing some early U2. It struck him as ironic; he remembered Eric comparing the confessed random voids in his memory to music. Can’t sing along without the music. Sometimes, he felt he could almost reach the edge, almost get the lightest grip on it before it skittered away. He had never really realized until Eric pointed it out that he occasionally could come closer to grasping it in certain areas. He assumed some connection beyond vagrant de ja vu, similar to moving closer to the radio made the music more clear.
“Hey, Eric, my man!” The voice had a false cheer to it, turning it almost nasal and obsequious.
He had been recognized. Taylor turned into the anemic, knife-edge face of Renfeild. Something of an inevitable fixture, Renfeild always gave the impression of being a tag-a-long tyro, someone’s kid brother, his face perpetually a painting of innocence and bewilderment trying to look experienced. His shoulder-length, raven hair had fallen from the truculent tail again, ensconcing his face.
“Eric,” he repeated. “Didn’t expect to see your face here, man.”
Taylor hadn’t bothered to correct him, or the myriad of others who mistook his name. Eric told him that they often got confused, and in the end it didn’t matter, so it was easier to avoid more confusion. “Didn’t expect myself to be here,” Taylor said.
Renfeild grinned, creating a manic image. “Understand that.” He took a stool and reached for the bowl. In transit, a folded slip of paper inexplicably fell from his leather sleeve onto the bar. Taylor brushed it toward him reach back for the bowl himself.
Taylor halted abruptly from pure surprise. The light shifted to show the statue, a very commendable rendition of the Madonna towering six feet tall over the bar, arms extended with palms toward the ceiling as though offering grace to whatever patrons would slough beneath. Which at the moment comprised himself. The proprietor was at a table in the rear, reading a paperback.
Taylor took a stool between the hands and beneath the affectionate gaze of half-closed eyes. He pulled a bowl of M&Ms closer, and began to absently chew.
Somewhere, just filtering beyond the range of aural distinction, a radio was playing some early U2. It struck him as ironic; he remembered Eric comparing the confessed random voids in his memory to music. Can’t sing along without the music. Sometimes, he felt he could almost reach the edge, almost get the lightest grip on it before it skittered away. He had never really realized until Eric pointed it out that he occasionally could come closer to grasping it in certain areas. He assumed some connection beyond vagrant de ja vu, similar to moving closer to the radio made the music more clear.
“Hey, Eric, my man!” The voice had a false cheer to it, turning it almost nasal and obsequious.
He had been recognized. Taylor turned into the anemic, knife-edge face of Renfeild. Something of an inevitable fixture, Renfeild always gave the impression of being a tag-a-long tyro, someone’s kid brother, his face perpetually a painting of innocence and bewilderment trying to look experienced. His shoulder-length, raven hair had fallen from the truculent tail again, ensconcing his face.
“Eric,” he repeated. “Didn’t expect to see your face here, man.”
Taylor hadn’t bothered to correct him, or the myriad of others who mistook his name. Eric told him that they often got confused, and in the end it didn’t matter, so it was easier to avoid more confusion. “Didn’t expect myself to be here,” Taylor said.
Renfeild grinned, creating a manic image. “Understand that.” He took a stool and reached for the bowl. In transit, a folded slip of paper inexplicably fell from his leather sleeve onto the bar. Taylor brushed it toward him reach back for the bowl himself.
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