The evening had swung round again, and within minutes the sun would be pushing up past the edges. They two were still awake, smiling, kissing, holding. He said something dry; she laughed. There was a secret punishment which had been inflicted on both. It said: you will live like a cigarette, burning so beautifully at first, and falling to ashes. Ashes came with sunrise.
Friday, October 11, 2013
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Footnote 3 of Carl Edson's "Broken Mirrors: The Schism of Post-war Ke$han Scholarship" (2078, p.1)
3. Dr Branson's early papers regarding socio-distorted discourse, and the subsequent rebuttal to his claims on gender roles--spearheaded by Gayle's "Party Girlz: Glitter and Glam in Six Songs of Cannibal (2027)"--produced a fundamental new lens through which Ke$hanism could be viewed not necessarily as an actual academic discourse, but rather, through a Gรถdelian use of metafictional devices and "fourth-wall-breakage (p. 3)," a type of performance "in homage and honor [of] that greatest of all: Ke$ha. (p. 18)." This period would set the stage for pre-war philosophies to sweep the larger field of depersonalizational therapy, creating a fertile ground for the current period of scholarship.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Werewolf
My hands were incredibly warm, and beneath them was something so smooth and soft and giving that a part of me didn't believe. It would have been hard for anyone. To believe, I mean. How could another human being possibly see what I was seeing? Feel what I was feeling? The impossible blues, the smooth and gradual shadows, painting a gradient across her cheek. The cold tang of the water and the smooth warmth of her throat. My fingers were leaving beautiful indentations against her windpipe and arteries.
It was as if I were seeing her through a dream, the sensation. I knew it to be wrong, and I knew I would regret it so, but it came through filtered. My eyes had a shroud over them through which everything passed in a fog of vagary. I was briefly aware of the trickle of moonlight in the stream, but my heart beat loudly over it.
It was as if I were seeing her through a dream, the sensation. I knew it to be wrong, and I knew I would regret it so, but it came through filtered. My eyes had a shroud over them through which everything passed in a fog of vagary. I was briefly aware of the trickle of moonlight in the stream, but my heart beat loudly over it.
Laid Out
Laina hadn't moved in, she guessed, four hours. She'd lain down on the carpet of her room, plucked a string on the guitar a few feet away, and then hadn't moved for two hundred forty minutes. She blinked now and then. And she kept breathing. But she hadn't really moved.
She could not discern why this was so--her not moving and her general "not-movingness" that had developed internally as the not moving continued externally. She felt deadened. It was as if someone had, in that moment of acute pain when she'd taken it upon herself to lie down on the carpet of her floor, stuck her with a syringe full of soul-novocaine. And since then she hadn't moved.
She ran her tongue against the back of her teeth. They were smooth as all get out, but had weird little bumps and ridges, like you might expect of a topographical-map-made-model. Her eyes hurt from staring through the legs of her bed so long. She had counted the thirteen different wood grain knots in her floorboard seventeen times. She had counted how many times she'd counted her counting. Four times.
She felt absolutely nothing.
She longed to be high or drunk or rolling or tripping or something. But she could not bring herself to get up. And in the place she knew she should have felt guilt or crushing failure in wanting to resort to drugs, she felt a sort of a squeegeeish feeling. A lumpy, wet, nearly-soapy cleanness. An almost kind of dirty cleanness.
She breathed in, once, deeply, and she held the breath. Then she breathed out.
She could not discern why this was so--her not moving and her general "not-movingness" that had developed internally as the not moving continued externally. She felt deadened. It was as if someone had, in that moment of acute pain when she'd taken it upon herself to lie down on the carpet of her floor, stuck her with a syringe full of soul-novocaine. And since then she hadn't moved.
She ran her tongue against the back of her teeth. They were smooth as all get out, but had weird little bumps and ridges, like you might expect of a topographical-map-made-model. Her eyes hurt from staring through the legs of her bed so long. She had counted the thirteen different wood grain knots in her floorboard seventeen times. She had counted how many times she'd counted her counting. Four times.
She felt absolutely nothing.
She longed to be high or drunk or rolling or tripping or something. But she could not bring herself to get up. And in the place she knew she should have felt guilt or crushing failure in wanting to resort to drugs, she felt a sort of a squeegeeish feeling. A lumpy, wet, nearly-soapy cleanness. An almost kind of dirty cleanness.
She breathed in, once, deeply, and she held the breath. Then she breathed out.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Serial Killers Getting High
"No man, it's weird. You just like... it's strange."
"When do I feel it?"
"Soon."
They each took another hit, the second boy coughing.
"Okay. I feel it. Do I feel it? What does it... feel like. I feel it."
The first smiled.
He saw, in his mind's eye, the animals he'd dissected alive. He saw their hearts beating, and for the pleasure they'd brought then, an endless wing of remorse unfolded within him. He let it go.
"Oh my God," the second said, "it's like a... it's like..."
"A great big wing man. Don't hurt too bad. It's okay, you didn't know."
His friend started weeping for his past, and he held him. Absolved him. And all of this is the cloud of a new future.
Friday, October 4, 2013
A Chat
The day I met God it was in the mid-70s and overcast. I love that kind of weather. It was later in the evening; I'd driven into the edge of town to have a few drinks with a friend of mine, but he'd cancelled at the last second.
I've never minded drinking alone, so I sat down, ordered three fingers of Jameson neat, and started reading a book.
A man came and sat next to me and told me:
"You won't believe this, but I'm God."
I told him he was right.
He said: "When you were thirteen, you fantasized about living inside a woman's breast, non-sexually."
I told him he was right.
"When you were twenty, you didn't threaten to kill yourself to your ex-girlfriend, because you felt that would be unfair."
I told him to get to the point.
"You're going to kill someone tonight, driving home drunk."
He was probably right, I was already on my second drink.
"You saw the little girl today, but you didn't really notice her. You remember the red balloon though."
I did.
"You're going to slam into her mother's car going home, and kill the mother. The girl will be brain-damaged for the rest of her life. Severely."
"Then I won't drive home," I said.
"Yes you will. You can't help it."
I looked down at the drink, then back at God. I finished the drink and ordered another.
I asked him why he was telling me all this.
He didn't really know. "There is no reason, I guess," he said.
"Okay."
After a few hours, after I was considerably drunk, I stepped outside. I felt decently dizzy. We had talked about the world and our favorite drinks and why certain animals existed, but Pokemon didn't. He was pretty nice.
I came to my car and looked at it for a long time, admiring the dents and the duct tape that held my driver's side headlight in. I ran my fingers across the cracked window moulding. Or whatever that stuff's called. I fingered my keys in my pocket, and took them out. Held them up against the lock of the car, and dropped them.
As I was turning my eyes back up to the car, after picking up the keys, I noticed a storm drain maybe ten feet away.
I slid the keys in, hearing them bounce and jingle and scrape across the asphalt.
When I went back into the bar, the man said I had to go to Hell now. That it wasn't a test, that the mother had needed to die. It was all very important to him for some reason. I offered to buy him a drink, but he shook his head and left.
I've never minded drinking alone, so I sat down, ordered three fingers of Jameson neat, and started reading a book.
A man came and sat next to me and told me:
"You won't believe this, but I'm God."
I told him he was right.
He said: "When you were thirteen, you fantasized about living inside a woman's breast, non-sexually."
I told him he was right.
"When you were twenty, you didn't threaten to kill yourself to your ex-girlfriend, because you felt that would be unfair."
I told him to get to the point.
"You're going to kill someone tonight, driving home drunk."
He was probably right, I was already on my second drink.
"You saw the little girl today, but you didn't really notice her. You remember the red balloon though."
I did.
"You're going to slam into her mother's car going home, and kill the mother. The girl will be brain-damaged for the rest of her life. Severely."
"Then I won't drive home," I said.
"Yes you will. You can't help it."
I looked down at the drink, then back at God. I finished the drink and ordered another.
I asked him why he was telling me all this.
He didn't really know. "There is no reason, I guess," he said.
"Okay."
After a few hours, after I was considerably drunk, I stepped outside. I felt decently dizzy. We had talked about the world and our favorite drinks and why certain animals existed, but Pokemon didn't. He was pretty nice.
I came to my car and looked at it for a long time, admiring the dents and the duct tape that held my driver's side headlight in. I ran my fingers across the cracked window moulding. Or whatever that stuff's called. I fingered my keys in my pocket, and took them out. Held them up against the lock of the car, and dropped them.
As I was turning my eyes back up to the car, after picking up the keys, I noticed a storm drain maybe ten feet away.
I slid the keys in, hearing them bounce and jingle and scrape across the asphalt.
When I went back into the bar, the man said I had to go to Hell now. That it wasn't a test, that the mother had needed to die. It was all very important to him for some reason. I offered to buy him a drink, but he shook his head and left.
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