Happy Friday, y'all!
wax museums
by |
|
0
comments
no matter how bright the flame, the wax always dries hard and cold.
when i was little i thought that they looked like little tear drops as the wick came closer and closer to its imminent metal end
but i was always curious;
were those little orange faces crying or just sweating?
a dark and cathartic realization of their finite existence, or just, well,
the physiological by-products of their existence?
i want to be more than wax
when i was little i thought that they looked like little tear drops as the wick came closer and closer to its imminent metal end
but i was always curious;
were those little orange faces crying or just sweating?
a dark and cathartic realization of their finite existence, or just, well,
the physiological by-products of their existence?
i want to be more than wax
by |
|
3
comments
I've thought about this for awhile, and decided that this is necessary to write about. It's more for my own benefit, and it's nothing I wish to receive "attention" for. I have a real connection with conveying this through the pages, mainly because I control entirely what they say. All I really want is to be happy, and I feel that writing this out and being open about this is a great first step. There's nothing cryptic about it; it is what it is.
The right of pursuing one's happiness is one of our very basic rights, yet I feel like it's one of the most difficult rights to obtain, mainly because it is all dependent on definition. That is where the problem does lay, and that is where so many people (myself included) fuck things up, and that is why most people never achieve it. What I am about to say is my own story of failed and stupid attempts at a vain definition of "happiness," and something to which everyone (at least abstractly) can relate. I'm going to write this once, and with each tap of my fingers I have no clue what will come out next.
Here we go.
Essentially, everything that has been said by everyone who I've hurt is right. I am cold, I am lonely, and I don't really know how to love. When I was a child, I would never kiss any of my parents or relatives, and I was physically incapable of telling people that I loved them. My parents' marriage didn't work out, but that's not an excuse; it's just one of the first places people look when they try to understand why someone is sad. Puttylike minds can be shaped by even the most crooked of hands, I suppose. But ultimately, it's still my choice. Each night, I could have said "I love you" after "Goodnight," but I didn't. The concept of the word seemed foreign and awkward to me.
And it's not like I haven't had the opportunity and experiences to alter that part of myself. I've had plenty of people who offered their love to me, who wanted me to be happy, but again, through my actions and inactions I've forced them out. And really, they should be out anyway.
Tonight someone told me what they like most about me is that I don't care about image, and that deep down I understand life, what matters most, etc, to an extent that most others do not. And I wanted to vomit. That flattery is completely undeserved and completely false.
I've always been obsessed with appearances, facades, and nuances, because they can mimic feelings almost seamlessly. I remember when I was eight years old, lonely at my first stay away camp (I didn't participate in any activities; I sat with the handicapped and overweight kids), I didn't like the fact that I didn't make any friends. I looked to the mirror, and wondered what was wrong with me. So, at dinner, I stared at my plate in silence.
And then in middle school, I saw all of the pretty popular girls with straight hair and puka shell necklaces laughing and getting boys to call them on the phone. I never got too close to anyone (even though that's what I wanted most), because I was scared of attaching myself and then having something taken away. So, flawed logic told me that to be happy, I had to be skinny. So I looked at my plate again, and began to hide my food.
And when I was 13, I discovered my grandmother's medicine cabinet. Stupidly, I started to read the bold words "dietary supplement." Oh my God! It had the word "diet" in it! I could be skinny! And happy! So I took it. I remember crying in her bedroom after swallowing it and writing a message in a bottle to be opened after my death; I knew what I was doing was stupid, and I just KNEW that I would die by ODing on "diet pills."
I noticed no difference in this, so I started doing my research. Still curbed my foods, exercised every night for hours at a time, and began taking my grandfather's laxatives and diuretics (one at a time so he wouldn't notice). I always sucked in my stomach, but it was never hollow enough. I remember crying one night in the mirror because I thought my thighs were close to touching each other, and that meant that I could never be happy. I knew it was so goddamn dumb, but I kept pinching anyway. My eighth grade health teacher called me an ectomorph the next day. And that made me happy.
Freshman year of high school came around, and people would look at me in the halls and point at my bony frame. My grandmother told me one day that she didn't recognize me because of how thin I had become. It's all the ballet, Nezzie! I told her. My mom took my hand one day after my grandfather's death and asked me if I was OK--I was, she said, "so thin." Kids in my geometry class whispered the word anorexic as it was my turn to find the area of an arc on the board. And I was fucking flattered.
But at night, I would still cry because I was still alone and my thighs were too big, and because my grandfather who read me "Caps For Sale" died and because my Dad was so far away, and because I felt like a failure because I couldn't even make myself throw up with a toothbrush. But mainly because I was masking my real unhappiness with something vain and pathetic.
And then junior year, I got the attention of a few boys, and I forgot (temporarily) about my loneliness. And I lost my virginity, and things were great! High school! And for prom, I saw a beautiful champagne colored dress, but had to buy a size-4. And then, I saw a picture of myself in jeans, and my thighs touched. Soon enough, I went back to those familiar aisles of the pharmacy, and proceeded to the self check-out.
Same time next year: same boy (cheated on me), same dress designer, different size: size-0. Thanks, mono. Something really fucking disgusting? I was excited when I found out I had mono and not strep. No appetite! Thin!
And then things were OK for awhile, but soon enough I found out my father had cancer, and how lonely both of us were. And then to cope, I shut everyone else out of my life again, went back to the pharmacy, and threw my regulars plus some extra shit into my basket. And I knew it was stupid, and ridiculous, but I liked it. I LOVED that I was "fucked up." And obviously, if I knew I was "fucked up," and trying to be "fucked up," then I wasn't really "fucked up." Stupid girl. But whatever, I liked the results.
And now, I am hypercritical and sensitive, and I'm pretty sure I'm lonelier now than I ever have been before. Sometimes I take rainbow pills, and sometimes I drink on an empty stomach because it hits me faster that way. The worst part is knowing what I'm doing, have done, and will do each step of the way. And I mean, I'm sad. But being sad is something I think you can know and be simultaneously.
But really, I'm sad because no matter what size I am, I know in my heart that it doesn't matter, and I know I really don't care about any of that bullshit anyway, but I've grown up with it and have had a really difficult time letting it go! I'm sad because I've figured out how formulaic and average what my real problems are in a matter of minutes, but it's taken years on my body to get to this point. Here it is:
1. Mom and Dad split up at age 4.
Effect: concept of love is fucked (my choice)
2. I live with my mother, see my father on the weekends
Effect: men are absent, and I don't really see hetero "love"
Potential future effect: my affinity toward gay men?
3. I move somewhere new, feel lonely.
Effect: excessive desire to fit in, to be wanted, to be loved
4. See pretty popular girls holding hands with boys
Effect: boys make girls happy, and wanted and loved, but only the pretty ones
5. Still lonely, grandfather dies
Effect: even more absence of XY chromosome, more desire to be "loved"
Effect: I fill the "void" with promises of happiness (defined then as thinness)
Effect: develop a nasty habit in pursuit of happiness
Final effect: push others away because ultimately my partner of 11 years is my "problem," and the only thing I can dedicate myself to 100%.
Reversing all of this takes a lot of time and effort, but it's something I think I can accomplish, albeit slowly. Deep down, I know I have what it takes, and I deserve to be happy.
It's a work in progress, but it's progress. And that's all that really counts, isn't it?
The right of pursuing one's happiness is one of our very basic rights, yet I feel like it's one of the most difficult rights to obtain, mainly because it is all dependent on definition. That is where the problem does lay, and that is where so many people (myself included) fuck things up, and that is why most people never achieve it. What I am about to say is my own story of failed and stupid attempts at a vain definition of "happiness," and something to which everyone (at least abstractly) can relate. I'm going to write this once, and with each tap of my fingers I have no clue what will come out next.
Here we go.
Essentially, everything that has been said by everyone who I've hurt is right. I am cold, I am lonely, and I don't really know how to love. When I was a child, I would never kiss any of my parents or relatives, and I was physically incapable of telling people that I loved them. My parents' marriage didn't work out, but that's not an excuse; it's just one of the first places people look when they try to understand why someone is sad. Puttylike minds can be shaped by even the most crooked of hands, I suppose. But ultimately, it's still my choice. Each night, I could have said "I love you" after "Goodnight," but I didn't. The concept of the word seemed foreign and awkward to me.
And it's not like I haven't had the opportunity and experiences to alter that part of myself. I've had plenty of people who offered their love to me, who wanted me to be happy, but again, through my actions and inactions I've forced them out. And really, they should be out anyway.
Tonight someone told me what they like most about me is that I don't care about image, and that deep down I understand life, what matters most, etc, to an extent that most others do not. And I wanted to vomit. That flattery is completely undeserved and completely false.
I've always been obsessed with appearances, facades, and nuances, because they can mimic feelings almost seamlessly. I remember when I was eight years old, lonely at my first stay away camp (I didn't participate in any activities; I sat with the handicapped and overweight kids), I didn't like the fact that I didn't make any friends. I looked to the mirror, and wondered what was wrong with me. So, at dinner, I stared at my plate in silence.
And then in middle school, I saw all of the pretty popular girls with straight hair and puka shell necklaces laughing and getting boys to call them on the phone. I never got too close to anyone (even though that's what I wanted most), because I was scared of attaching myself and then having something taken away. So, flawed logic told me that to be happy, I had to be skinny. So I looked at my plate again, and began to hide my food.
And when I was 13, I discovered my grandmother's medicine cabinet. Stupidly, I started to read the bold words "dietary supplement." Oh my God! It had the word "diet" in it! I could be skinny! And happy! So I took it. I remember crying in her bedroom after swallowing it and writing a message in a bottle to be opened after my death; I knew what I was doing was stupid, and I just KNEW that I would die by ODing on "diet pills."
I noticed no difference in this, so I started doing my research. Still curbed my foods, exercised every night for hours at a time, and began taking my grandfather's laxatives and diuretics (one at a time so he wouldn't notice). I always sucked in my stomach, but it was never hollow enough. I remember crying one night in the mirror because I thought my thighs were close to touching each other, and that meant that I could never be happy. I knew it was so goddamn dumb, but I kept pinching anyway. My eighth grade health teacher called me an ectomorph the next day. And that made me happy.
Freshman year of high school came around, and people would look at me in the halls and point at my bony frame. My grandmother told me one day that she didn't recognize me because of how thin I had become. It's all the ballet, Nezzie! I told her. My mom took my hand one day after my grandfather's death and asked me if I was OK--I was, she said, "so thin." Kids in my geometry class whispered the word anorexic as it was my turn to find the area of an arc on the board. And I was fucking flattered.
But at night, I would still cry because I was still alone and my thighs were too big, and because my grandfather who read me "Caps For Sale" died and because my Dad was so far away, and because I felt like a failure because I couldn't even make myself throw up with a toothbrush. But mainly because I was masking my real unhappiness with something vain and pathetic.
And then junior year, I got the attention of a few boys, and I forgot (temporarily) about my loneliness. And I lost my virginity, and things were great! High school! And for prom, I saw a beautiful champagne colored dress, but had to buy a size-4. And then, I saw a picture of myself in jeans, and my thighs touched. Soon enough, I went back to those familiar aisles of the pharmacy, and proceeded to the self check-out.
Same time next year: same boy (cheated on me), same dress designer, different size: size-0. Thanks, mono. Something really fucking disgusting? I was excited when I found out I had mono and not strep. No appetite! Thin!
And then things were OK for awhile, but soon enough I found out my father had cancer, and how lonely both of us were. And then to cope, I shut everyone else out of my life again, went back to the pharmacy, and threw my regulars plus some extra shit into my basket. And I knew it was stupid, and ridiculous, but I liked it. I LOVED that I was "fucked up." And obviously, if I knew I was "fucked up," and trying to be "fucked up," then I wasn't really "fucked up." Stupid girl. But whatever, I liked the results.
And now, I am hypercritical and sensitive, and I'm pretty sure I'm lonelier now than I ever have been before. Sometimes I take rainbow pills, and sometimes I drink on an empty stomach because it hits me faster that way. The worst part is knowing what I'm doing, have done, and will do each step of the way. And I mean, I'm sad. But being sad is something I think you can know and be simultaneously.
But really, I'm sad because no matter what size I am, I know in my heart that it doesn't matter, and I know I really don't care about any of that bullshit anyway, but I've grown up with it and have had a really difficult time letting it go! I'm sad because I've figured out how formulaic and average what my real problems are in a matter of minutes, but it's taken years on my body to get to this point. Here it is:
1. Mom and Dad split up at age 4.
Effect: concept of love is fucked (my choice)
2. I live with my mother, see my father on the weekends
Effect: men are absent, and I don't really see hetero "love"
Potential future effect: my affinity toward gay men?
3. I move somewhere new, feel lonely.
Effect: excessive desire to fit in, to be wanted, to be loved
4. See pretty popular girls holding hands with boys
Effect: boys make girls happy, and wanted and loved, but only the pretty ones
5. Still lonely, grandfather dies
Effect: even more absence of XY chromosome, more desire to be "loved"
Effect: I fill the "void" with promises of happiness (defined then as thinness)
Effect: develop a nasty habit in pursuit of happiness
Final effect: push others away because ultimately my partner of 11 years is my "problem," and the only thing I can dedicate myself to 100%.
Reversing all of this takes a lot of time and effort, but it's something I think I can accomplish, albeit slowly. Deep down, I know I have what it takes, and I deserve to be happy.
It's a work in progress, but it's progress. And that's all that really counts, isn't it?
by |
|
0
comments
Sometimes, I worry to myself that I'll never really know the man whose blood flows through mine, and that he'll fade quietly into the night, alone in his peninsula. And I worry even more not about how I will respond, but how I just may not. I don't really know my father, and I feel like I don't really know myself, and any of my subsequent actions or inactions are just some ruse to cover the ugly holes in the floor of my heart. I would think I'm numb, but that would require a little less feeling and a lot less tears. I'm not asking for pity. There's really no colorful language I can use to describe it, to pretty it up a bit and make myself seem more polished and fucking pristine. I hate talking about it because I refuse to make myself vulnerable and will never ever let anyone see me cry. I am cold, and it breaks my tight fisted heart that I know more about my father's ailments than I do his life. And I worry that I can never know myself, because I don't know who and what is inside of me. I wish this would stop, I really do, but how do you fill something that has no end? I don't know to whom I am speaking, and why I give two shits about where I place my prepositions right now, and why this seems to have manifested itself so quickly and abruptly. Fuck, I don't even know what "it" or "this" is. That's the scariest part.
King Glenn's Word
by |
|
0
comments
Once upon a time there was a white haired king named Glenn Beck who lived atop a hill made of white sand. His voice was loud and shrill, and when he barked and stomped his scepter the entire city could hear it. It wasn't a question of being able to hear it, but being able to avoid it. Even the fishermen working miles away at the wharf were susceptible to this mad king's rants.
One day, King Glenn heard of a neighboring village's new efforts at spreading a sense of community, responsibility, and charity. Glenn hated this, because to him, ideas (especially benevolent ones) spread like disease, and he did not, under any circumstances, desire that the lowly peons in his town would help each other. Secretly, it was because Glenn was worried that once there was a united village, they might see past his ivory locks and may not be so intimidated by his ethereal castle made of sand. Striking his scepter violently on his marble floor, he spat and shouted:
IT'S PROPAGANDA, IT IS ALL PROPAGANDA! ALL OF THE GOD-LOVING CITIZENS OF MY KINGDOM SHALL NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, VOLUNTEER! WE SHALL NOT HELP OTHERS, IT IS THE DEVIL'S WORK AND WE SHALL NOT HAVE ANY PART OF IT.
Citizens stopped what they were doing at once: the bakers stopped baking, the fishermen stopped fishing, and the teachers stopped teaching. They were all startled. A young boy who was helping an old woman with her groceries dropped the bag at once, frowned, and ran away. What is volunteerism, the townspeople wondered? Isn't everything we do for one another some form of it? Out of fear of King Glenn, the villagers retreated into their homes and lived in silence, only attentive to the King's daily shouts and decries against humanity. Soon enough, the entire kingdom was in disarray.
Upon hearing of the kingdom's weakening bloodline, many other neighboring kingdoms became interested in pursuing it, and claiming it as their own. One day, as King Beck was staring out the window of his castle, he saw an army from a neighboring village appear in the horizon. The black line seemed as though it would never end. King Glenn, alone in his castle made of sand, began to worry. He looked down to his kingdom; no one was wandering the streets, all doors to homes and buildings were closed. He violently struck his staff once more and said:
CITIZENS, AN ARMY FROM THE NEIGHBORING VILLAGE HAS ENTERED OUR BORDERS. I REQUIRE YOU AT ONCE TO VACATE YOUR HOMES, AND HELP DEFEND OUR BELOVED KINGDOM!
Surely, thought Beck, they would listen. He licked the white spittle from the sides of his cracked lips, and watched out the window with anticipation. In his mind, he saw townspeople, men, women, children, the elderly, all pouring out of their houses like his little and mindful ants (as he so desired them to be) with weapons, fighting the King's war.
But no one came, and the lights in the houses remained shut. The army drew closer. He struck his staff again.
But no one came, and the lights in the houses remained shut. The army drew closer. He struck his staff again.
CITIZENS, IF YOU LOVE GOD, YOU WILL COME OUT THIS INSTANT AND SAVE OUR KINGDOM.
He struck his staff the hardest he ever did, and all of a sudden, things started to shake. King Glenn looked up, and he saw his chandelier start to rattle. And then, he saw his saucers tremble. And before he knew it, his sand castle began to crumble.
From their window, the townspeople gasped as the immaculate castle fell to pieces, and watched in terror as the king (or so they thought, it was hard to discern him from the sand), struggled and choked in the mass avalanche, crying (from what they could hear, that is, it was rather muffled): Help me! Help me!
A little boy tried to run up to the top of the once-hill, but his mother stopped him. Son, she said, we are not to help others. It is the order of the King.
The little boy stopped, sighed, and went back to his playthings.
The army continued to march, however no blood had to be shed. After all, the king died by his own hand.
A few months later, as new rule had been established, the late King's thoughts had come true: the idea of volunteerism did spread, and citizens raked up the sand together from the fallen castle and transplanted it to the beaches. One person raised question, saying they should not just toss away this sand; it was special, he said.
"Don't be daft," said the next, "sand is sand. Anyone can build a castle from it, but it will never last. Now here, help me with this shovel."
And the other man did, and soon enough, King Beck's marvels, both his word and his palace, were but tiny white granules of nothingness, soon to be forgotten by all.
From their window, the townspeople gasped as the immaculate castle fell to pieces, and watched in terror as the king (or so they thought, it was hard to discern him from the sand), struggled and choked in the mass avalanche, crying (from what they could hear, that is, it was rather muffled): Help me! Help me!
A little boy tried to run up to the top of the once-hill, but his mother stopped him. Son, she said, we are not to help others. It is the order of the King.
The little boy stopped, sighed, and went back to his playthings.
The army continued to march, however no blood had to be shed. After all, the king died by his own hand.
A few months later, as new rule had been established, the late King's thoughts had come true: the idea of volunteerism did spread, and citizens raked up the sand together from the fallen castle and transplanted it to the beaches. One person raised question, saying they should not just toss away this sand; it was special, he said.
"Don't be daft," said the next, "sand is sand. Anyone can build a castle from it, but it will never last. Now here, help me with this shovel."
And the other man did, and soon enough, King Beck's marvels, both his word and his palace, were but tiny white granules of nothingness, soon to be forgotten by all.
Darwin, Baby.
by |
|
0
comments
I can't believe that 60% of Americans don't believe in evolution, but those 60% believe in capitalism.
Isn't it all survival of the fittest?
Actually, scratch that. I don't believe in evolution OR capitalism because we're all just a bunch of stupid apes with too many things.
"Can I get back my lonely life?"
by |
|
0
comments
Drugs were good for these guys, fame was not.
But maybe they are the same thing, one is just more expensive.
I suppose it's all a matter of definition?
I'm beginning to redefine things, and I'm scared.
"Kings, you have no clothes!"
But maybe they are the same thing, one is just more expensive.
I suppose it's all a matter of definition?
I'm beginning to redefine things, and I'm scared.
"Kings, you have no clothes!"
how precious.
by |
|
3
comments
Current Addictions:
- two small blue pills that take away what I don't like
- two small blue pills that make me feel what I don't like
- two yellow capsules that promise Results!
- one orange pill to make me feel Alright
- one white pill to eat away at my insecurities
- major sevenths (they just can't quite make it, can they?)
- covering, concealing, masking, and hiding what I don't like
- counting, pinching, and frowning (usually in that order)
- being jealous as couples kiss in the street, but secretly smiling: only one person can fit in a coffin
- books and books and books to flood my mind and clean my thoughts
- laughing at myself, because in the end none of my rainbow pills matter, and that obnoxious lip locked couple doesn't matter, and that my body doesn't matter, and that ultimately nothing matters
- simultaneously loathing myself for being so fucking melodramatic and "collegiate."
Speaking of, what's the big deal with death? If I say I'm relieved that we grow sour, yellow, and eventually expire like milk (yes, even skim), does that make me demented? Twisted? Tragic, or worse--depressed? Thank god this body I happen to inhabit will eventually tell my spirit to go fuck itself, and then break down. And thank god I don't know when that is. And thank god it's not up to me. If that's not the most real thing, then I don't know what is.
But I will say this: if I could live through the page and not through the picture, I would; a picture is far less forgiving, and far less fun.
Ideas for a "happy" life:
- don't look in the mirror
- don't read ayn rand
- avoid trans fats
- accept others, but not their bullshit
- don't watch tv
- find someone who loves you and who you love for the RIGHT reasons, and hold on to them and grow fat and wrinkly and grey together and complain about your mutual rheumatoid arthritis and incontinence together. beauty fades.
- Addendum: don't have a kid if it's just to save a marriage; you'll be miserable, it'll be miserable, and well, you have to see the kid every day and deal with the fact that you are both an ass and a failure.
the trainer
by |
|
0
comments
Every evening (and there had been several), since his retirement, Henry liked to sit by the fireplace in the front room of his home, sipping red wine. He would rest his feet close to the hearth; he had bad circulation, and toward the end of the day, his feet would go numb, especially now since it was winter. Sipping on his Nebiollo (his doctor said it was good for his heart), Henry would often look out through his bay window and onto the neighborhood. His house stood atop a steep hill, and as an old and rather porcine man, his visits and ventures outside of his home were few. And anyway, he preferred to watch, not interact. After a few moments of inactivity, Henry said "Must be a quiet night," drew in the dark green curtains, and hobbled back to his armchair.
The dusty floor sighed as he made his way to the chair, but ultimately there was silence. There were a few cracks from the fireplace here and there, but other than that, nothing. Henry had lived by himself a while now, so he was used to it. He wriggled his toes gingerly. "Fire's nice, though."
It was only a matter of time before Henry's eyes made their way to the mantle. This was also part of the evening ritual. His eyes widened as he gazed from left to right: every inch (spare the small gap toward the right) was covered, not in pictures or portraits, but in golden trophies. Each time he looked at them, Henry would lick his thin lips like a lion does before ripping into his prey. Then, once his lips were properly moistened, he would read their engravings aloud. But most of all, he loved how they glowed by the fire. And how, by comparison, he glowed. When he read his trophies, Henry would admire his own reflection staring back, bronzed and glowing like an idol.
"1992," Henry read, "Best In Show." He paused and cleared his throat. "Toy Breed." Pride warmed his body, and he licked his lips once more, sipping the wine. Some of it spilled from the glass and down his jowls like candlewax. He paid no mind. "Ah," Henry said finally, "that was a good year. Such a good dog."
That year, Henry trained a bischon frise named Beverly Bisou. He loved the toy breeds, especially the bischon. She was small, easy to train, and rarely barked. Henry was a rigorous and demanding trainer (that's why he was so highly acclaimed), and did not necessarily follow the most orthodox training techniques. However, with Beverly, he didn't have to resort to those. She was perfect: petite, pure, and with adorable beady black eyes and a puffy white tail. She charmed everyone she encountered, and easily won Henry First Prize.
Henry's eyes moved toward the next trophy. He licked his lips, then read "1993. First Prize: non-sporting group." He shook his head, took two sips of wine. "Not as easy of a win as old Bev, that one."
In 1993, Henry trained and showed a french bulldog named Stella. Stella was smart, that was certain, and because of that, she was stubborn. And she was dark, darker than his Beverly. Sometimes, no matter how Henry tried, she refused to train. Even when Henry took his newspaper to her nose, she refused. Inevitably, Stella gained some weight, exceeding the 28 pound limit. This angered Henry the most. "You fat bitch," he would say while jerking her leash, "I'm not going to feed you anymore, and I'll beat you 'til you're black and blue 'slong as you don't listen to me." So he continued to beat his dog, and she continued to be fat.
One day, he'd had enough. It was summertime, and the show was a week away. Stella was still overweight and stubborn. A relentless competitor, Henry refused to throw in the towel. He grabbed Stella by her pointy ears, and threw her outside into the summer swelter, without food or water, for days. "That'll show her," he said, watching as the dog wheezed and emitted long streams of saliva, "that'll make her mind."
And on the fourth day, when he began to see ribs peeking out from her tan coat, he slowly opened the door, allowing a now silent and servile Stella to enter. Henry placed his bloated fingers onto his gut and rubbed it. "Well, Stell," he began, "we'll get you washed and groomed, and you might be able to pass as a Frenchie. Maybe even win me a prize. Whaddaya say, Stel?" She was gone, but he heard a crunching sound come from the kitchen. Starved, Stella was eating cracker bits that Henry had left on the floor. "Stop that!" he yelled, kicking her emaciated frame from he food. "You always were a fattie," he sneered.
Henry's eyes moved to the next trophy. "1994," he read, "First Prize: terrier group."
This one's name was Lola, and she was a norfolk terrier. Henry liked her enough; she wasn't fat and stubborn like Stella. But that bark. Lola liked to talk, and Henry had little time for that. She would bark in the morning, bark while being groomed, bark while training, and even at night when Henry was trying to rest.
One evening, while Henry was enjoying his TV dinner, Lola began to bark at his feet. She barked for five consecutive minutes. Henry's heart was acting up that day, and he had no more patience for that insouciant yap. "You obnoxious rat," he shouted while moving his tray off of his belly, "you're going to give me a heart attack if you keep this shit up!"
He clutched his heart with his left hand, the newspaper with his right. Henry beat Lo so hard and for so long that when he let go of the newspaper, there were ink stains all over his right palm. He looked to the corner and saw Lola: she was trembling, her head tucked in between her legs. Henry sneered. "For your sake, you better not open your damned mouth again." He made his way to the sink. "Oh, and this ink better wash off. I don't want to have a dirty hand in the competition." Thankfully, he ink rinsed off, and Henry won First Prize.
Now, Henry's eyes rested heavily on the gap. He shook his head, and gripped the stem of his wine glass harder.
The year was 1995. Feeling confident of his training skills and propensity to win, Henry decided he would take on a group unlike anything he'd ever trained before: the hound group. In particular, the irish wolfhound. He was always fascinated by this breed; they were massive creatures, and he loved the lines their legs would make when running. Unfortunately, they were not the most sound investment for training. While they were beautiful, they came laden with health problems. But, Henry was determined that his foray into the hound group would be a strong one, and he would settle for nothing less than a wolfhound.
Her name was Luiath (Lou for short), and she was magnificent. Lou had a shiny dark coat that reminded Henry of a storm, and she came up to the top of his belly. And when she ran, she resembled a stallion. Her personality, which most captivated Henry, was bold, resilient, and strong. Lou was unlike anything Henry had seen before.
At first, he was transfixed by her strange beauty. He loved watching her run, and sometimes he'd run with her, laughing, breathing, and forgetting about his condition completely. Other days, he would not even train her, but rather watch her sleep. He loved that, watching her ribs slowly rise and then fall, and the deep and cavernous sound her body made as she breathed in and out. Sometimes, Lou would kick in her sleep, and he would wonder what she was dreaming about. Each evening, Henry would sit in silence with her (she slept by the fire), listening to her breathe.
The show came sooner than he remembered, and Henry came to the disconsolate conclusion that he hadn't trained Lou at all, and that she was nowhere near being ready for the show. Begrudgingly, Henry pulled out the familiar collars and leashes. Henry had to train her hard, and it began to hurt his heart watching her run. For soon, Lou developed a bit of a limp, and no longer resembled a stallion, but rather a mule.
But Henry could not lose. He kept training, hoping that Lou would grow accustomed to the pain and just endure for a bit longer, just so he could win First Prize. "I promise, Lou," he said as he was doing the drills, "after all this is over, we can stay by the fireplace all the time."
So the competition came, and Henry thought Lou was ready. She was striking, and people could not help but stop and stare at this commanding black dog entering the room. Word generated about her, and what a strange choice it was for Henry to pick her. He was proud of Lou, though. And, as no surprise, Lou won First Prize in the hound group. And, because her scores were so high, the two were eligible for Best In Show, something Henry had not won since Beverly.
It was the night before the final evaluation, and Henry was doing last minute training when he saw it: Lou's limp had returned. The black dog turned toward Henry as he whistled, and began to whimper. "C'mon, Lou," he said, "do it for me." She stopped. "OK," Henry said, "we'll rest."
The next day, it was time for the judge to come round for final examinations. She made her way to Lou. "I pray to God," he thought, "I hope she doesn't reach for Lou's leg." The judge began feeling around. Ears: good. Eyes: great. Snout: great. Coat: excellent. Front legs. Right hind.
The judge didn't even have a chance to reach for the left before Lou leapt from her pedestal and tackled the judge to the floor. Unaware of her own strength, it took two men to pull the 150 pound storm off of the mauled judge. "Damn it, Lou," Henry cried, clutching his chest. They took Lou away.
After a while, the competition's veterinarian came to Henry. "Sir," he said, "your dog has attacked the judge, and it goes without saying that she's disqualified."
Henry nodded.
"Additionally," added the vet, "when we were checking the dog for any injuries on her part, we found out that she has a rare but serious heart condition. It's called dilated cardiomyop--"
Henry clutched his own heart. "So what are you saying?"
"Well," the vet said, "she appears to be in a lot of pain. That outburst she had today put a lot of stress on her heart."
"And?"
"Well, we think it's best for her sake if she's put down."
All Henry could hear was the sound of her breathing.
"I know it's sad, sir, but you've gotta know that comes with the territory with this breed. And anyway, you're a trainer, you can't get too attached as it is. You think about it, and whenever you're ready, let us know."
"Can I at least see her before I make up my mind?"
"Of course," said the vet. "Right this way."
He took Henry into a small white room where Lou lay. Her eyes were sad and grey, her head lay heavily on the floor. "Oh Lou," he sobbed, "I'm so sorry. I killed you, I killed you and I'm so sorry." The dog lay still, and he could barely hear her shaky breaths go in and out. He kissed the top of her black head. "OK," Henry said, "you can take her now."
The shiny needle went into Lou's side, and Henry watched in despair as his beautiful thunderstorm disappaited into nothing but a faint cloud.
When Henry left the vet the day, he retired and hadn't stepped out of the house since.
Henry's eyes finally left the gap and lowered themselves to the fire. It was dwindling now, small blue flames licked the soot covered walls with their charred and cracked tongues, and he could hear nothing. His heart tightened, and he clutched his wine glass harder. A cold sweat began to trickle down his forehead. He released his fingertips from the wine glass, and watched as it fell to the floor, spilling red wine all over the white carpet. He clutched his heart with his hand, and crumpled to the floor, limbs jagged and splayed like a battered insect, staring at the cold ceiling. His chest was still tight, and now his feet were numb.
As his vision was beginning to fade, he could only see that small, dusty gap on the mantle. He closed his eyes. "That bitch," muttered Henry. But before he could finish, he died, silently and alone, in a room full of old trophies. Soon after, those stubborn blue tongues of the fire finally retreated into their dry, spindly mouths, and all was dark in the house. And then, the neighbors would say, the old house that sat atop the very steep hill looked like a massive, magnificent storm cloud.
The dusty floor sighed as he made his way to the chair, but ultimately there was silence. There were a few cracks from the fireplace here and there, but other than that, nothing. Henry had lived by himself a while now, so he was used to it. He wriggled his toes gingerly. "Fire's nice, though."
It was only a matter of time before Henry's eyes made their way to the mantle. This was also part of the evening ritual. His eyes widened as he gazed from left to right: every inch (spare the small gap toward the right) was covered, not in pictures or portraits, but in golden trophies. Each time he looked at them, Henry would lick his thin lips like a lion does before ripping into his prey. Then, once his lips were properly moistened, he would read their engravings aloud. But most of all, he loved how they glowed by the fire. And how, by comparison, he glowed. When he read his trophies, Henry would admire his own reflection staring back, bronzed and glowing like an idol.
"1992," Henry read, "Best In Show." He paused and cleared his throat. "Toy Breed." Pride warmed his body, and he licked his lips once more, sipping the wine. Some of it spilled from the glass and down his jowls like candlewax. He paid no mind. "Ah," Henry said finally, "that was a good year. Such a good dog."
That year, Henry trained a bischon frise named Beverly Bisou. He loved the toy breeds, especially the bischon. She was small, easy to train, and rarely barked. Henry was a rigorous and demanding trainer (that's why he was so highly acclaimed), and did not necessarily follow the most orthodox training techniques. However, with Beverly, he didn't have to resort to those. She was perfect: petite, pure, and with adorable beady black eyes and a puffy white tail. She charmed everyone she encountered, and easily won Henry First Prize.
Henry's eyes moved toward the next trophy. He licked his lips, then read "1993. First Prize: non-sporting group." He shook his head, took two sips of wine. "Not as easy of a win as old Bev, that one."
In 1993, Henry trained and showed a french bulldog named Stella. Stella was smart, that was certain, and because of that, she was stubborn. And she was dark, darker than his Beverly. Sometimes, no matter how Henry tried, she refused to train. Even when Henry took his newspaper to her nose, she refused. Inevitably, Stella gained some weight, exceeding the 28 pound limit. This angered Henry the most. "You fat bitch," he would say while jerking her leash, "I'm not going to feed you anymore, and I'll beat you 'til you're black and blue 'slong as you don't listen to me." So he continued to beat his dog, and she continued to be fat.
One day, he'd had enough. It was summertime, and the show was a week away. Stella was still overweight and stubborn. A relentless competitor, Henry refused to throw in the towel. He grabbed Stella by her pointy ears, and threw her outside into the summer swelter, without food or water, for days. "That'll show her," he said, watching as the dog wheezed and emitted long streams of saliva, "that'll make her mind."
And on the fourth day, when he began to see ribs peeking out from her tan coat, he slowly opened the door, allowing a now silent and servile Stella to enter. Henry placed his bloated fingers onto his gut and rubbed it. "Well, Stell," he began, "we'll get you washed and groomed, and you might be able to pass as a Frenchie. Maybe even win me a prize. Whaddaya say, Stel?" She was gone, but he heard a crunching sound come from the kitchen. Starved, Stella was eating cracker bits that Henry had left on the floor. "Stop that!" he yelled, kicking her emaciated frame from he food. "You always were a fattie," he sneered.
Henry's eyes moved to the next trophy. "1994," he read, "First Prize: terrier group."
This one's name was Lola, and she was a norfolk terrier. Henry liked her enough; she wasn't fat and stubborn like Stella. But that bark. Lola liked to talk, and Henry had little time for that. She would bark in the morning, bark while being groomed, bark while training, and even at night when Henry was trying to rest.
One evening, while Henry was enjoying his TV dinner, Lola began to bark at his feet. She barked for five consecutive minutes. Henry's heart was acting up that day, and he had no more patience for that insouciant yap. "You obnoxious rat," he shouted while moving his tray off of his belly, "you're going to give me a heart attack if you keep this shit up!"
He clutched his heart with his left hand, the newspaper with his right. Henry beat Lo so hard and for so long that when he let go of the newspaper, there were ink stains all over his right palm. He looked to the corner and saw Lola: she was trembling, her head tucked in between her legs. Henry sneered. "For your sake, you better not open your damned mouth again." He made his way to the sink. "Oh, and this ink better wash off. I don't want to have a dirty hand in the competition." Thankfully, he ink rinsed off, and Henry won First Prize.
Now, Henry's eyes rested heavily on the gap. He shook his head, and gripped the stem of his wine glass harder.
The year was 1995. Feeling confident of his training skills and propensity to win, Henry decided he would take on a group unlike anything he'd ever trained before: the hound group. In particular, the irish wolfhound. He was always fascinated by this breed; they were massive creatures, and he loved the lines their legs would make when running. Unfortunately, they were not the most sound investment for training. While they were beautiful, they came laden with health problems. But, Henry was determined that his foray into the hound group would be a strong one, and he would settle for nothing less than a wolfhound.
Her name was Luiath (Lou for short), and she was magnificent. Lou had a shiny dark coat that reminded Henry of a storm, and she came up to the top of his belly. And when she ran, she resembled a stallion. Her personality, which most captivated Henry, was bold, resilient, and strong. Lou was unlike anything Henry had seen before.
At first, he was transfixed by her strange beauty. He loved watching her run, and sometimes he'd run with her, laughing, breathing, and forgetting about his condition completely. Other days, he would not even train her, but rather watch her sleep. He loved that, watching her ribs slowly rise and then fall, and the deep and cavernous sound her body made as she breathed in and out. Sometimes, Lou would kick in her sleep, and he would wonder what she was dreaming about. Each evening, Henry would sit in silence with her (she slept by the fire), listening to her breathe.
The show came sooner than he remembered, and Henry came to the disconsolate conclusion that he hadn't trained Lou at all, and that she was nowhere near being ready for the show. Begrudgingly, Henry pulled out the familiar collars and leashes. Henry had to train her hard, and it began to hurt his heart watching her run. For soon, Lou developed a bit of a limp, and no longer resembled a stallion, but rather a mule.
But Henry could not lose. He kept training, hoping that Lou would grow accustomed to the pain and just endure for a bit longer, just so he could win First Prize. "I promise, Lou," he said as he was doing the drills, "after all this is over, we can stay by the fireplace all the time."
So the competition came, and Henry thought Lou was ready. She was striking, and people could not help but stop and stare at this commanding black dog entering the room. Word generated about her, and what a strange choice it was for Henry to pick her. He was proud of Lou, though. And, as no surprise, Lou won First Prize in the hound group. And, because her scores were so high, the two were eligible for Best In Show, something Henry had not won since Beverly.
It was the night before the final evaluation, and Henry was doing last minute training when he saw it: Lou's limp had returned. The black dog turned toward Henry as he whistled, and began to whimper. "C'mon, Lou," he said, "do it for me." She stopped. "OK," Henry said, "we'll rest."
The next day, it was time for the judge to come round for final examinations. She made her way to Lou. "I pray to God," he thought, "I hope she doesn't reach for Lou's leg." The judge began feeling around. Ears: good. Eyes: great. Snout: great. Coat: excellent. Front legs. Right hind.
The judge didn't even have a chance to reach for the left before Lou leapt from her pedestal and tackled the judge to the floor. Unaware of her own strength, it took two men to pull the 150 pound storm off of the mauled judge. "Damn it, Lou," Henry cried, clutching his chest. They took Lou away.
After a while, the competition's veterinarian came to Henry. "Sir," he said, "your dog has attacked the judge, and it goes without saying that she's disqualified."
Henry nodded.
"Additionally," added the vet, "when we were checking the dog for any injuries on her part, we found out that she has a rare but serious heart condition. It's called dilated cardiomyop--"
Henry clutched his own heart. "So what are you saying?"
"Well," the vet said, "she appears to be in a lot of pain. That outburst she had today put a lot of stress on her heart."
"And?"
"Well, we think it's best for her sake if she's put down."
All Henry could hear was the sound of her breathing.
"I know it's sad, sir, but you've gotta know that comes with the territory with this breed. And anyway, you're a trainer, you can't get too attached as it is. You think about it, and whenever you're ready, let us know."
"Can I at least see her before I make up my mind?"
"Of course," said the vet. "Right this way."
He took Henry into a small white room where Lou lay. Her eyes were sad and grey, her head lay heavily on the floor. "Oh Lou," he sobbed, "I'm so sorry. I killed you, I killed you and I'm so sorry." The dog lay still, and he could barely hear her shaky breaths go in and out. He kissed the top of her black head. "OK," Henry said, "you can take her now."
The shiny needle went into Lou's side, and Henry watched in despair as his beautiful thunderstorm disappaited into nothing but a faint cloud.
When Henry left the vet the day, he retired and hadn't stepped out of the house since.
Henry's eyes finally left the gap and lowered themselves to the fire. It was dwindling now, small blue flames licked the soot covered walls with their charred and cracked tongues, and he could hear nothing. His heart tightened, and he clutched his wine glass harder. A cold sweat began to trickle down his forehead. He released his fingertips from the wine glass, and watched as it fell to the floor, spilling red wine all over the white carpet. He clutched his heart with his hand, and crumpled to the floor, limbs jagged and splayed like a battered insect, staring at the cold ceiling. His chest was still tight, and now his feet were numb.
As his vision was beginning to fade, he could only see that small, dusty gap on the mantle. He closed his eyes. "That bitch," muttered Henry. But before he could finish, he died, silently and alone, in a room full of old trophies. Soon after, those stubborn blue tongues of the fire finally retreated into their dry, spindly mouths, and all was dark in the house. And then, the neighbors would say, the old house that sat atop the very steep hill looked like a massive, magnificent storm cloud.
a few things: nothing profound.
by |
|
1 comments
so as i'm sitting here in bed, listening to my mother warble away to a pbs special on leonard cohen, i've been able to reflect on a few things.
first of all, after spending the day wandering the streets of salem, i realized i can't be that surprised when a man on the streets will go out of his way to tell me to, uh, move your cahh forward a bit (six inches) so mah people can pahk, please. except he didn't say please, just extended a patronizing tap on the hood of my car. he's a descendant of a Puritan, and well, they're all assholes. while eating lunch today at the nathaniel hawthorne inn (my food was served cold, and it was overpriced...how fitting), some bostonian was escorted out of the restaurant for threatening to "have a go" with a fellow diner for looking at his wife the "wrong way." i couldn't help but stare. but when his eyes met mine i quickly turned back to my mesclun. salads don't beat you up when you stare at them, anyway.
second of all, i realized why my parents got divorced. driving from the hotel to salem was quite a cumbersome task, apparently. but, story of their relationship short: they always have a map but can't follow their own directions. my mom does this thing where when she's upset, her hands turn into the paddles of an oar, and she flicks them back and forth. from the amount of flailing, one might think she was paddling upstream in class 5 whitewater rapids. i don't know what dad did, at this point i had drowned both of them out with trumpets and violins.
i had my "aura" photographed today. it was a bona fide polaroid with bad exposure. anyway, my aura was yellow-orange. aka, disease+least favorite color. great...apparently it means i'm creative and overflowing with ideas, but all i could concentrate on were the bags under my eyes. the orange means, according the the self-proclaimed clairvoyant, i've been overworked recently. well, right. i'm surprised when i checked my bag at the airport the other day they didn't charge me for three.
went on a ghost tour--fascinating stuff. i think it's the best way to learn about a city. i've done it in st. augustine, charleston, savannah, and now salem.
tomorrow we're heading to walden pond (side note: thoreau didn't do his own laundry, too busy reflecting i guess), and i'm trying to look forward to it. but right now all i can think of is the fact that i didn't work out today and hinduist contributions to global responsibility. theology test on thursday. i didn't have any cardio today. satyagraha. muscles are softening. reincarnation? fuck it.
i have some ideas for short stories, but am afraid to write in front of my parents. they write, and i dislike answering questions.
potpourri of conclusions:
1) if i get a dog that's not a mutt, i want a bulldog. its name will be anton (get it? i'll be the lady with the pet dog, even though she had a white spitz. but who would really want a dog called a spitz?)
2) a honeybun from walgreens contains 97% of your daily saturated fat intake, and remarkably, over 100% of your daily guilt intake. i didn't have one, but could feel my arteries constrict as i even glanced at it.
3) jeff buckley's "hallelujah" is way better than cohen's.
4) gothic townies piss me off. somehow, i'm pretty sure that if the devil existed, he'd wear a finely tailored italian suit, not some black parachute pants riddled with chains. or eyeliner. nix that.
I'll delete this tomorrow when I have something to say (of self-deemed merit, if it so exists)
by |
|
3
comments
Every word that escapes your fingers is completely ersatz and makes my eyes want to bleed.
I would say that trying to read your "work" makes me want to kill myself, but that would just be redundant, now wouldn't it?
Some people say practice makes perfect, but you don't see people training runners without legs.
You can't construct something from nothing. That's not poetic, that's just fucking science.
A pretty pedestal made of air is nothing to be admired. Hell, it doesn't even exist.
Maybe to be a little less cryptic, I'll say this:
stop copying, i see right through it.
develop your own hobby.
or personality.
whatever.
...better?
you're paint-by-numbers.
i can still see the 1's and 3's and 8's no matter how much you try to drench them in acrylics. and it just doesn't hang as pretty. it's crooked, and no matter how expensive of a frame you get for your sunflowers à la van gogh, it still looks like a tacky artificial flower arrangement at a dingy mortuary. no life, just cheap "i love you daddy but not that much" death.
People who tell you to never give up aren't well-adjusted individuals. That flowery "believe in yourself" bookmark you keep (though you rarely use it) was just made by some middle-aged suit who wanted to make a buck or two, anyway. And I mean, he's good at it; it's gathering dust right now in your pseudo-intellectual novel that you can't comprehend. But unfortunately for you, no amount of deceiving diction can transcend reality.
So, here's something to keep your page, something I'm giving to you, something I want you to copy:
"Take off the glasses and put down the pen. Be you and give up."
(this brought to you by a PMS-ing, water-retaining, frizzy haired ((thanks torrential downpour for being my companion to and from class all day, didn't put a damper on my sunny spirits one bit!!!)) bitch named Savannah.)
I would say that trying to read your "work" makes me want to kill myself, but that would just be redundant, now wouldn't it?
Some people say practice makes perfect, but you don't see people training runners without legs.
You can't construct something from nothing. That's not poetic, that's just fucking science.
A pretty pedestal made of air is nothing to be admired. Hell, it doesn't even exist.
Maybe to be a little less cryptic, I'll say this:
stop copying, i see right through it.
develop your own hobby.
or personality.
whatever.
...better?
you're paint-by-numbers.
i can still see the 1's and 3's and 8's no matter how much you try to drench them in acrylics. and it just doesn't hang as pretty. it's crooked, and no matter how expensive of a frame you get for your sunflowers à la van gogh, it still looks like a tacky artificial flower arrangement at a dingy mortuary. no life, just cheap "i love you daddy but not that much" death.
People who tell you to never give up aren't well-adjusted individuals. That flowery "believe in yourself" bookmark you keep (though you rarely use it) was just made by some middle-aged suit who wanted to make a buck or two, anyway. And I mean, he's good at it; it's gathering dust right now in your pseudo-intellectual novel that you can't comprehend. But unfortunately for you, no amount of deceiving diction can transcend reality.
So, here's something to keep your page, something I'm giving to you, something I want you to copy:
"Take off the glasses and put down the pen. Be you and give up."
(this brought to you by a PMS-ing, water-retaining, frizzy haired ((thanks torrential downpour for being my companion to and from class all day, didn't put a damper on my sunny spirits one bit!!!)) bitch named Savannah.)
Fifty.
by |
|
0
comments
Dave had never been much of a runner. It wasn't that he was out of shape; he was thin, but he just never ran that often. But today, for whatever reason, was different. He felt like running, so he did. Grabbing a pair of dusty tennis shoes that had found their way to the dark corner of his closet, he put them on: left after right. They were a bit snug in the toe, but they would do.
He realized quickly why running was never one of his hobbies. While it was a beautiful October afternoon, his lungs were singing a different song. He heaved heavily as the cool autumn air filled them. Dave's goal wasn't lofty: "If I can just make it to the top of this hill," he said, "I'll be fine."
In order to distract himself from this daunting task, he decided to concentrate on his surroundings. Amber and golden leaves seemed to drip one by one from the trees; it truly was a sight. As he rounded the corner, however, he was haunted by the image of a girl staring at him through the window of a nearby blue house. Or, at least, he thought she was staring. His breathing grew heavier, and he had to fight to tear himself away from the pale, grey eyed figure gazing blankly into the distance. Dave looked to the sky, only to find that it was the same shade of blue as that house, and as her eyes. Not the girl's eyes, but hers.
The pale sun began to blind him, so he averted his eyes to the trees, and how they swayed easily in the wind as the leaves kept falling. It was the moss, this time, that reminded him of her. Dave remembered how she would wake up early in the morning sometimes and take a shower. And then, while he was still in bed, she would crawl up to him, skin damp, clean, and fragrant. Her hair would hang from her head loose and slightly curly, like the Spanish moss. Sometimes, warm drops of water would tickle and trickle onto his chest as she leaned in to give him a dewy kiss. He always liked her hair that way, but she didn't; she preferred it straight.
The top of the hill can't be that much farther, he thought. From behind, he heard the rhythmic breaths of others who would soon pass him on the trail. His lungs were about to burst. As they passed him like gazelles, he sneered. With each of their steps, he hated them even more, even though he didn't have the slightest idea as to who they were. A gust of cool wind, and even more leaves were falling.
There was a small creek to his left. The runners had passed, so he slowed down. The leaves in the water obscured most of his reflection, but another gust of wind revealed to him a tired and hollow face. Is that really me? he wondered. He kept staring at the creek, and how the tiniest stone created a new ripple in the stream. And then he thought about her again, and her butt. He loved it; it was always so smooth and cool and round like a weathered pebble, with slight dimples here and there. She hated those. Any time he tried to touch her there, she would release an exasperated sigh and roll onto her back. The leaves kept falling.
Each of Dave's feet weighed one thousand pounds now. His cheeks were blotched and red, and he was sure that his lungs were being digested by his stomach, and he was sure that he would never reach the top of the hill. He could feel his shoelaces coming undone. His toes began to throb. And the wind picked up right as his eyes left his feet, and the dry, dirty leaves poured into his eyes and mouth. He couldn't see anything now. "Goddamn it," he cried. "I give up."
Like a wounded soldier, he fumbled over to the nearest park bench and sat down. He began to wipe the bits of leaves from his eyes. Once they were gone, he began to look around. He was at the playground: the top of the hill. "Would you take a look at that," he said while staring at his feet (they were dirty, untied, and still covered with bits of leaves), "I ran up a fucking hill in shoes that don't even fit."
Reminiscing in his newly-found nirvana, he studied the bench. He could barely make out the words written in ink. Etchings of colored-in hearts still remained, but they too were faint--each day slowly being bleached by the autumn sun. And then he looked to the trees: tall, thin, and (to him, at least) weak. He watched in disgust as they were pushed back and forth by something unseen and without weight. He saw the leaves falling, but this time they did not resemble jewels. One fell by his foot; he picked it up. While they glittered in the sunlight as they fell delicately to the floor, upon closer examination, he realized that they were transparent. And they were dead.
Dave released his skinny fingers from the brown leaf, and for a moment it flew like a sparrow, but soon it dropped like a stone. He didn't recognize it anymore. Dave looked to his dirty shoes once again, and began to tie them. He stood up: tall, thin, and tired, and admired the trees as they shed the dead from their wooden skin.
He moved his feet, and heard the faint snapping of a leaf. Moved the other, faster now. And then one more, and one more, and one more! His feet flew forward one by one until they were unstoppable. Snap, snap, snap! The wind tore through his eyes, his ears, his lungs, his hair, and crunch! went the leaves and I'm leaving it all behind me!
He realized quickly why running was never one of his hobbies. While it was a beautiful October afternoon, his lungs were singing a different song. He heaved heavily as the cool autumn air filled them. Dave's goal wasn't lofty: "If I can just make it to the top of this hill," he said, "I'll be fine."
In order to distract himself from this daunting task, he decided to concentrate on his surroundings. Amber and golden leaves seemed to drip one by one from the trees; it truly was a sight. As he rounded the corner, however, he was haunted by the image of a girl staring at him through the window of a nearby blue house. Or, at least, he thought she was staring. His breathing grew heavier, and he had to fight to tear himself away from the pale, grey eyed figure gazing blankly into the distance. Dave looked to the sky, only to find that it was the same shade of blue as that house, and as her eyes. Not the girl's eyes, but hers.
The pale sun began to blind him, so he averted his eyes to the trees, and how they swayed easily in the wind as the leaves kept falling. It was the moss, this time, that reminded him of her. Dave remembered how she would wake up early in the morning sometimes and take a shower. And then, while he was still in bed, she would crawl up to him, skin damp, clean, and fragrant. Her hair would hang from her head loose and slightly curly, like the Spanish moss. Sometimes, warm drops of water would tickle and trickle onto his chest as she leaned in to give him a dewy kiss. He always liked her hair that way, but she didn't; she preferred it straight.
The top of the hill can't be that much farther, he thought. From behind, he heard the rhythmic breaths of others who would soon pass him on the trail. His lungs were about to burst. As they passed him like gazelles, he sneered. With each of their steps, he hated them even more, even though he didn't have the slightest idea as to who they were. A gust of cool wind, and even more leaves were falling.
There was a small creek to his left. The runners had passed, so he slowed down. The leaves in the water obscured most of his reflection, but another gust of wind revealed to him a tired and hollow face. Is that really me? he wondered. He kept staring at the creek, and how the tiniest stone created a new ripple in the stream. And then he thought about her again, and her butt. He loved it; it was always so smooth and cool and round like a weathered pebble, with slight dimples here and there. She hated those. Any time he tried to touch her there, she would release an exasperated sigh and roll onto her back. The leaves kept falling.
Each of Dave's feet weighed one thousand pounds now. His cheeks were blotched and red, and he was sure that his lungs were being digested by his stomach, and he was sure that he would never reach the top of the hill. He could feel his shoelaces coming undone. His toes began to throb. And the wind picked up right as his eyes left his feet, and the dry, dirty leaves poured into his eyes and mouth. He couldn't see anything now. "Goddamn it," he cried. "I give up."
Like a wounded soldier, he fumbled over to the nearest park bench and sat down. He began to wipe the bits of leaves from his eyes. Once they were gone, he began to look around. He was at the playground: the top of the hill. "Would you take a look at that," he said while staring at his feet (they were dirty, untied, and still covered with bits of leaves), "I ran up a fucking hill in shoes that don't even fit."
Reminiscing in his newly-found nirvana, he studied the bench. He could barely make out the words written in ink. Etchings of colored-in hearts still remained, but they too were faint--each day slowly being bleached by the autumn sun. And then he looked to the trees: tall, thin, and (to him, at least) weak. He watched in disgust as they were pushed back and forth by something unseen and without weight. He saw the leaves falling, but this time they did not resemble jewels. One fell by his foot; he picked it up. While they glittered in the sunlight as they fell delicately to the floor, upon closer examination, he realized that they were transparent. And they were dead.
Dave released his skinny fingers from the brown leaf, and for a moment it flew like a sparrow, but soon it dropped like a stone. He didn't recognize it anymore. Dave looked to his dirty shoes once again, and began to tie them. He stood up: tall, thin, and tired, and admired the trees as they shed the dead from their wooden skin.
He moved his feet, and heard the faint snapping of a leaf. Moved the other, faster now. And then one more, and one more, and one more! His feet flew forward one by one until they were unstoppable. Snap, snap, snap! The wind tore through his eyes, his ears, his lungs, his hair, and crunch! went the leaves and I'm leaving it all behind me!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Subscribe Feed (RSS)