T-to-the-A

Archive for the ‘Prose’ Category

Meaning what exactly?

In Fiction, Prose, The Daily Drool on June 26, 2009 at 3:23 pm

Suddenly it hits me, like truck meeting insect on the interstate.  The intersection of what was thought and what really is, colliding with catastrophic force.  It’s knocked me up and to the ground.  I am literally sitting amongst the funk and fur trapped inside my carpet.  Mind realing from the revelation, backpedalling its way through the Why’s and the How’s, to the That’s where this began. This thing pressed firmly against my throat is fear and the thing pressing it there is my own godamned hand.

Witty phrases and collected quotes are batting against my skull like a flock of angry birds, their wings silently bleeding against my tightly closed eyes.  Repeating the beat, mercilessly in refrain-  The thing we are most afraid to do is generally the right thing to be doing.

I’ve been thinking it was left.

Smashed now, between the weight of what is realized and the unflinching stone-cold stench of the truth against my cheek, I bite down harder on the thing I must throw out.

I do not want it to be true, this epiphany of epic scale, this avalanche of thought collapsing around, over, inside of me…  But it will not let me move, shift, reshape, or hide.  Forced to stare into the pickle I now inhabit, I look around and it is ugly.

I’ve been assigning meaning to this thing… assigning it not from observation, but from what I wanted to see… from my own need.

And like the blind seeing sun for the first time, this lightening bolt has seared its image onto my very lids.  My eyes burn with it.  I cannot sleep, but it is there.

Floating in all it’s emptiness… a lie.  A malfeasance of interpretation.

Once again, I have guessed incorrectly.

Once again I hit the floor.

This is a fictionalized bit of stuff, I’m fine, don’t be worrying 🙂

A Slight Shiver

In Fiction, Prose on April 21, 2009 at 7:03 pm

The alarms are going off.  Alarms that require attention.  Attention to the details, to the shiver...  And you’re suddenly checking in with yourself, checking in with the breathe, with the scent, with the hands.  Their are hands on the small of your back, hands that carry weight and a sense of humor… the shiver creeping up your spine isn’t related to the weather, but to the face peeking over your shoulder.

“Whoops.” 

He didn’t mean to shock your system, he was just trying to reach the water cooler.  But now you’re sinking into something sticky.  The engine’s stalling.  You know you should say something witty, but instead you’re staring into his eyes, into his very deep eyes.  You can see every little imperfection.  Why are you so close?  

He smiles when you teeter, your mental deviations going unnoticed, the palpitations slowing.  Sweat makes it’s way to your warm places, to try and cool your pulse, but its presence only makes things worse.  And he’s still close… or are you?  Are you leaning into him?  Did you just smell him?  WHAT are you DOING?

It’s definitely time to say something… something clever, something so funny he’ll be thinking about it all day- no, you!  He’ll be thinking about YOU all day.  You can do this.  You can, you can, and you will!  So you open your lips (are they chapped?  Oh God, when’s the last time you put on that lip balm that makes your lips plump? Is it in your pocket?  Could you get away with a quick application?)  But then isn’t… he’s speaking!  He’s saying something to you right now.  How on earth are you ever going to answer him if you don’t stop talking to yourself?

And then he’s gone, turned and walking away, his thirst quenched and yours just beginning.  

Funny that hands on your middles could move you to panic.  So funny, in fact, that you have to sit down for a moment till the feeling comes back to your face and you can laugh normal again.

Fur Trees and John Travolta

In Fiction, Prose, The Daily Drool on April 13, 2009 at 8:02 pm

It was early… an early-bird call.  So early in fact that I questioned whether or not this bird might have had one too many, skipped the tequila, and gone straight for the worm.  But there it was, plain as the un-day – and I reached for it in all the confusion… shaking my cat loose of its happy place.

“Mmph?”  

And he wanted to talk.  To talk about his day.  Because for him, it was still going.  

“Butits, huhmp, it’slikethreeo’clock- in the morng!”

What?  Is that English? 

And I repeat the time – “Three o’clock, it’s three o’fucking’clock in the morning!”

It was important, though, he needed to be heard.  To feel that the world wasn’t silently eclipsing him as he toiled away at his act;  Tending the broken hearts by night, and his own broken dreams by day.  

So I listened.  And I snoozed.  

“Are you listening to me?”

Mmph.

And there it was, finally a crystal clear click of understanding.  “What time do you have to be up?”

I’m leaving at 6:30.

“In the morning?”

YES.

“Oh, Jesus, I’m… I’m really sorry.  I’ll talk to you later.  Go back to sleep.”

As if I could… He’s stirred just enough of my neurons that things otherwise unnoticed at such an hour are now devastating my nest.  The cat is doing battle with my piggies and my brain is counting minutes; each one lost up against each one to come.  The sheep have gone off to pasture and I’m left to my own wicked devices.  

3:30.  

3:30 in the frickin’ morning and I’m dreaming of a sleep long past due.  

3:45 and the birds, as if taking their cue from my phone have all waken.  Singing out to the sun, ushering it towards the day.  

I’m wrapping the pillow over my head, I’m kicking the day off, crawling my way back into a dark, silent, night.  

4:00 and I’m now down to two.  Two blasted hours with which to rest my way fresh for a new day.  

I’m thinking wicked thoughts.  Thoughts of murdered bird, simmered in tequila, served over noodles that I eat in bed.  John Travolta shows up to ask if I’d like another, and I tell him “No thanks, the train is already in the courtyard.”  He nods, our intimate understanding sending every molecule into a delicate shiver.  I turn to the large furry tree sitting next to me and ask him to pass the salt.  

I’ll remember this dream once morning comes, and blame it on that phone call.  I’ll grumble my way to the toothbrush, and grumble my way to the door, and I’ll grumble my way through the sprawl with my ex-friend’s name on my angry tongue.  But for now, oh for now, I settle in to a strange sleep, not for one moment questioning the strange sights before me as the fur -tree offers me a mint.

Midnite mysteries…

In Essays, Fiction, Prose on February 13, 2009 at 7:26 pm

It was dark, and a little… out of focus.  The colors were so bright I could practically smell them, feel them, press them into my skin, but the air felt fuzzy, and when I looked up he was smiling at me, just as I would have imagined… Only, I was imagining him, wasn’t I?

I mean, I haven’t seen the guy in years, and here he is showing up between me and the wood paneled wall of… where are we?  Yes, yes, this most definitely must be a dream.  And yet, he looks so real… and we’re talking in that annoyingly theatrical way I oft remember using in my dreams.  Why am I so dramatic?

There, that was him, wasn’t it?  I’m not dramatic, or at least, I dont think I am.  He was the one who used to throw around that accusation.  Dramatic.  Although he was the party of crazy.  I’m sure…

But he’s smiling.  Miles of happy teeth staring back at me, practically dancing in his mouth, like little white beacons of promise. 

What was I saying?  He’s waiting, imploring, question marks are practically tumbling out of his eyeballs and onto my shoes, shoes, shoes… there’s the echo again.  Either I’m dreaming or we’re having this totally surreal moment inside a tunnel.  

And then it hits me, we haven’t seen each other since the fight.  Talk about dramatic, we were each so intent on getting the last word that we battled via text message into the wee hours of the night, long after our voices threw in the towel.  Why, then, is he looking at me like that?  With so much love…

What am I getting from him now that… do I need this?  Absolvment?  Understanding?  A warm, masculine force to tell me I’ll be okay?  Why him?  Of all forces to invite behind my eyes?  Him?  

And then he’s hugging me, holding me.  He leans in to kiss and I tuck my head into his shoulder instead.  “Is this alright?  This is what I need.  Just a hug.”   And he gives it to me.  A safe-haven that carries me into… where are we?

I’m starting to feel heavy again, solid, and his arms are getting thinner.  It’s all going to fade away into nothing, isn’t it?  “Are you real?”  I try to ask but my lips are suddenly too heavy… and that floating, echoing thought-speech that we had going is rendered inopperable.  I know I’m going to wake up at any second. That the weight I’m feeling in front of my tongue is my all-too-human-lips, that the body is receiving signals, electricity to force it to move… that this cave will not hold, and I will wake up solid and wondering… wondering… of all the angels to hold me, why did I call on you?

And then I blink.

I blink and my cat has her butt pressed against my pillow.  And the thought-speech is replaced with her gigantic meow reminding me that it’s time for breakfast.  So I get my now-solid body out of bed to turn the corner of this day…  His presence now only a wisp tucked behind the fog, leaving me rubbing and rolling my eyes, leaving me wondering.

But before I can delve too deeply into the “Why’s” of it all, the “How did he get heres?”, with the sandy remains of the night still tingling in my thoughts, she meows again.  

I better feed this cat before she takes off my fingers.

And just like that he’s gone.

A spot of fiction…

In Fiction, Prose on February 1, 2009 at 6:43 pm

It was filled with that coffee house music, Godless ambianic music meant to mean something.  To whom exactly I don’t know.  Certainly not the menopausal women who stood in front of me, arguing about which one had snack duty and who’s kid made more dooty… 

Encapsulating romance…that’s what I garner from the cat-crying over-head.  I order my hot chocolate, “Whole milk, yes I want whip cream.”  The woman looks me over, up and down. “That’s right!” I feel like screaming in her anorexic face.  “I said whole milk!  With WHIPPED CREAM, calorie for yummy calorie.  My metabolism runs the marathons, all of them.  It’s not my fault my bones need the calcium.  Vitamin D helps them drink.”  She drags her sullen feet towards the mystery machine making mochacino marvels.  I’m thirsty.

I wait.  There is a haze of longing ‘round my neck, pulling me inside.  Internal combustion, infernal seduction… I’m swept up in my fantasies.  If I could exist only in dreams, I think, everything would be perfect.  Enough drama to keep things interesting, with happy endings to make me smile.  I’m swaying with the ambiance, remembering romance with my hips. “$2.40” she says.  I quite my daydream and reach into my pocket.  3 seconds later we make the exchange and it’s all over for our affair. 

I turn around.  My God, there he is.  Standing behind me with my heart in his hands.  My hands hold a cappuccino.  The coffee girl made a mistake.  Stumbling towards the counter, my tongue in my cheek, he puts his hand to my back.  The fire spreads down my spine, lighting my ass on fire.  An explosion.  “Please fix this” I plead to the girl who thinks we’re still talking about coffee.  “How are you?” he wonders.  He who has been absent.  He who has been indifferent.  He who has been out of reach for so long that my arms have grown 2 inches in the reaching… “How are you doing?” I’m fucking dying over here if I don’t get my God-damned hot chocolate!  Soulfully singing something about “okay” I look to his chin to avoid looking to his lips to avoid looking at his nose to avoid looking into his eyes.  MY GOD!  The eyes of a God.  Lightening and thunder, or thunder and lightening, it’s ripping the place apart…