Pete sits, his laptop unfolded across his thighs, one leg crossing the other, hating the patrons of the Main St. Starbucks, resenting them and their lazy, mundane convictions, their Europeanized coffee orders, their windbreakers and bicycle shorts, their sporty loafers. He shortly turned that same burning eye of antipathy to his own image reflected in the gleaming copper of the espresso machine. His face widened and simultaneously lengthened there, like in a funhouse mirror, his complexion yellowing. He bared his teeth and a small girl in black tights and pink sandals with blinking LED lights implanted in the straps giggled but then frowned with uncertainty when he shifted his gaze to her.
"Fuck you, you little shit," he thought.
The door hung open an extra beat and a gust of too-cold-for-April air sapped away any cored warmth he had stored in the folds of his jacket and down in the coffee stained upholstery of the cushioned chair he sank into with his "venti americano" blending into the purple and green leaves of the jungle pattern like a bloated jaguar left out in the bleaching sun of some equatorial tropic. A blond wraithlike man held the door for a trio of post-workout suburban 40-someodd's bellying their leotards up to the glass-encased fat-free pastries. He grinned seemingly without context or judgement and stepped in and off to the side, out of the way of all the other customers in the store, either ordering or waiting for delivery, and had the appearance of taking in the entire scene all at once, including Pete, and indeed centering on him as he pulled a wooden chair to his side and sat.
"We're going to have to slow down if there's ever going to be any hope I think," he says out the side of his mouth, not making any eye contact, his head sweeping from side to side smiling in a stylized expression of wonder, Pete presumed, at the whole human condition.
"I'm sorry?" Pete blurts in reply. Getting a closer look at the younger man's skin he is distracted by what seems to be a discernible constellation in the man's acne scars. Is it Taurus? Hercules?
Saturday, April 25, 2015
Monday, April 20, 2015
FORE!!
The beaver is nocturnal, which is somehow really cool to me, and semi-aquatic. One might imagine the beaver taking issue with that one way or another.
"I love the water," he might say, "just not all the time. And you should see me swim. Oo-doggie I'm a swimmer. Better than you are."
Of course I can only conceive of a beaver with a contrary nature, competitive, and not just because he's a rodent (rodents of course being all about getting whatever they can grab, whenever they can grab it.) But more because they seem stubborn in their industry. Or that the industry makes them stubborn, and unsentimental and not given maybe over to "flights of fancy." Thus it follows that I'm presupposing that the rest of the world is sentimental and prone to screwing around in an unserious manner, and therefore a nuisance to the beaver.
Beavers are, of course, known for building dams and canals and fashioning a home and in around them. The natural instinct, you see, is to impede and take over in order to settle down. Also, when frightened, the slap their tails on the muddy banks of a stream or a river. Amazing, those tails--one imagines them leathery and slick from the beaver natural oils, oils often harvested as an additive in perfumes--wide spatulas, an almost perfect tool for beaver-work, and yet stuck on to the beaver's ass, counter-point to the task at hand. Then again, it's hard to get inside the mind of a beaver. The sense of direction, back to front and left to right must have evolved in such a way as to make head and tail work interdependant and independent simultaneously. Talk about a split personality.
Beavers belong to the genus "Castor" though I find no obvious connection to Greek mythology and certainly not a constellation in their nature and personality. Castor oil though, yes absolutely.
"I love the water," he might say, "just not all the time. And you should see me swim. Oo-doggie I'm a swimmer. Better than you are."
Of course I can only conceive of a beaver with a contrary nature, competitive, and not just because he's a rodent (rodents of course being all about getting whatever they can grab, whenever they can grab it.) But more because they seem stubborn in their industry. Or that the industry makes them stubborn, and unsentimental and not given maybe over to "flights of fancy." Thus it follows that I'm presupposing that the rest of the world is sentimental and prone to screwing around in an unserious manner, and therefore a nuisance to the beaver.
Beavers are, of course, known for building dams and canals and fashioning a home and in around them. The natural instinct, you see, is to impede and take over in order to settle down. Also, when frightened, the slap their tails on the muddy banks of a stream or a river. Amazing, those tails--one imagines them leathery and slick from the beaver natural oils, oils often harvested as an additive in perfumes--wide spatulas, an almost perfect tool for beaver-work, and yet stuck on to the beaver's ass, counter-point to the task at hand. Then again, it's hard to get inside the mind of a beaver. The sense of direction, back to front and left to right must have evolved in such a way as to make head and tail work interdependant and independent simultaneously. Talk about a split personality.
Beavers belong to the genus "Castor" though I find no obvious connection to Greek mythology and certainly not a constellation in their nature and personality. Castor oil though, yes absolutely.
Friday, April 17, 2015
TRAYS
It's a ghost….Jesus fucking Christ.
"You have a talent for dialogue but not you know like lofty concepts," that's what I thought he said. That's when the sun came out in the way it sometimes does on like a really rainy day. You know, like unnaturally in a way. Like it bleeds through the clouds and intrudes on the gloom. Not that you wanted or liked the gloom but like on a really rainy day you get accustomed to it--you get used to the barometer'ed headache and the nausea that comes along with it. And the neighbor walks his dog in the misty rain and the dog shits on the curb and everyone just keeps moving like the turd will somehow dissolve in the moistured air.
"A talent for dialogue. Maybe someone will hire you to write dialogue."
The ghost in on heroin. The ghost is all hopped on the aitch. Look at him lurching and bumping into the furniture. A lamp teeters and the little chain under the shade makes a gentle tinkling noise like the tiny river of rainwater in the downspout if you really were able to listen closely. The ghost mumbles indistinctly and exhales some greenish vapor that makes you drowsy. You gotta be careful. I whispered in the ear of the ghost which is not an easy thing to do because you can't really make out the ghost's features, not all the way. You have to use your imagination and then just start talking, really low. I say "remember the back porch, remember the endless walk in the woods? We're still there walking…there's a dead dog there in the leaves, like a brown rotting log with a stomach full of maggots." That makes the ghost's lips pull back like sardines on a white subway tile mosaic of teeth. The lurching stops.
"You have a talent for dialogue but not you know like lofty concepts," that's what I thought he said. That's when the sun came out in the way it sometimes does on like a really rainy day. You know, like unnaturally in a way. Like it bleeds through the clouds and intrudes on the gloom. Not that you wanted or liked the gloom but like on a really rainy day you get accustomed to it--you get used to the barometer'ed headache and the nausea that comes along with it. And the neighbor walks his dog in the misty rain and the dog shits on the curb and everyone just keeps moving like the turd will somehow dissolve in the moistured air.
"A talent for dialogue. Maybe someone will hire you to write dialogue."
The ghost in on heroin. The ghost is all hopped on the aitch. Look at him lurching and bumping into the furniture. A lamp teeters and the little chain under the shade makes a gentle tinkling noise like the tiny river of rainwater in the downspout if you really were able to listen closely. The ghost mumbles indistinctly and exhales some greenish vapor that makes you drowsy. You gotta be careful. I whispered in the ear of the ghost which is not an easy thing to do because you can't really make out the ghost's features, not all the way. You have to use your imagination and then just start talking, really low. I say "remember the back porch, remember the endless walk in the woods? We're still there walking…there's a dead dog there in the leaves, like a brown rotting log with a stomach full of maggots." That makes the ghost's lips pull back like sardines on a white subway tile mosaic of teeth. The lurching stops.
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