It was beautiful.
That dangling bead of drink, suspended by a microscopic friction between liquid and follicle.
It lingered for eternity, elbowing the beard hairs on either side, trembling on it's prickly precipice. Sour and acidic, the droplet resembled the obvious tear.
It was something.
Nothing. Nothing. Leonard rustled his paper purposefully. It was 4 in the afternoon and he was working though his second gin, scanning the print which blackened his fingers, waiting for the phone to ring, for a knock at the door that would rouse the dogs.
For something. He wiped the drop from his beard.
He focused on his own quiet breathing, listening to it's rhythm as his eyes languished on the page, on the sentence "... dragging the river..." "Notify next of kin..."
A fly buzzed and flitted and landed on the thin edge of the paper. Leonard watched it rub it's front legs together, like a greedy cartoon character anticipating some ill-gotten plunder. He stopped breathing. It was something, that insect perched there, praying or plotting or preening.
Leonard sucked in wind forcefully, causing the bug to jump and the dogs to prick up their ears. He exhaled and waited for something.
For the next something.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
Those teeth
Thom Skree's teeth conjured both predator and prey. They blinked briefly from beneath his mustache; the thin, long dentition of a carnivore that evoked bones blanched in the sun. He tapped his finger on the desk, or rather on the manuscript laying before him, breaking Harold's transfixion.
"Mr. Bansay. Harold, may I call you Harold? Good. Now..." Skree went on speaking as Harold slipped away again, staring at the movements of the face across the mahogany table. He was not alone, neither on his side of the desk or in his staring, as his mother beside him was equally preoccupied.
'Those teeth,' Harold's mother thought.
'That mustache,' Harold thought.
"Harold," Mr. Skree's voice cut into Harold's reverie. "Please understand, your piece is... unique. Provoking, but..." Skree's fingers emulated his teeth in length and impeccability. Their cuticles brushed invisible lint from his lapels. His tongue ran over his incisors, bulging out his mustache like a mouse under straw. "Given your recent... difficulties, our publishing house has policies regarding business with anyone involved as a defendant in pending felony charges."
Those "difficulties" played through Harold Bansay's daydream as he gazed at Mr. Skree's upper lip. The first, several weeks ago, involved the server at a creperie. According to the police report, the dust-up originated over a dispute of billing, but Harold knew better.
The second, only yesterday, was, in Harold's view, more of a misunderstanding. A miscommunication, really, a folly that under other circumstances would have been a forgettable nonevent easily laughed off, had the other party not been a member of the greater metro police force.
"And," Skree continued. "To be perfectly honest, this isn't really marketable. It's not really Sci-Fi, not suspense, well... We just don't know how to sell this."
Sweat beaded on the bridge of Harold's nose and nostrils. His mother shifted in her seat uncomfortably.
Skree cleared his throat. "Inventive as it is, a story about people who's mustaches control what they say is... AHHHHHHH!" Skree's calm demeanor was shattered as Harold suddenly vaulted across the desk, a glimmering strait razor glinting in his fingers.
Harold's poor mother was aggressively shoved aside as two burley men appeared from nowhere to subdue the ranting author. "I can cut it off, Mr. Skree! You don't know what you're saying! Let me cut it off, Mr. Skree! It's making you say these things!"
After the disarming and forcible removal of Harold from the office, Skree and Mrs. Bansay sat silently contemplating one another. "Mrs. Bansay... Um, I believe your son will be at the police station on 3rd and Morris." He offered a pained smile of consolation. "May I validate your parking?"
'Those teeth,' thought Harold's mother.
"Mr. Bansay. Harold, may I call you Harold? Good. Now..." Skree went on speaking as Harold slipped away again, staring at the movements of the face across the mahogany table. He was not alone, neither on his side of the desk or in his staring, as his mother beside him was equally preoccupied.
'Those teeth,' Harold's mother thought.
'That mustache,' Harold thought.
"Harold," Mr. Skree's voice cut into Harold's reverie. "Please understand, your piece is... unique. Provoking, but..." Skree's fingers emulated his teeth in length and impeccability. Their cuticles brushed invisible lint from his lapels. His tongue ran over his incisors, bulging out his mustache like a mouse under straw. "Given your recent... difficulties, our publishing house has policies regarding business with anyone involved as a defendant in pending felony charges."
Those "difficulties" played through Harold Bansay's daydream as he gazed at Mr. Skree's upper lip. The first, several weeks ago, involved the server at a creperie. According to the police report, the dust-up originated over a dispute of billing, but Harold knew better.
The second, only yesterday, was, in Harold's view, more of a misunderstanding. A miscommunication, really, a folly that under other circumstances would have been a forgettable nonevent easily laughed off, had the other party not been a member of the greater metro police force.
"And," Skree continued. "To be perfectly honest, this isn't really marketable. It's not really Sci-Fi, not suspense, well... We just don't know how to sell this."
Sweat beaded on the bridge of Harold's nose and nostrils. His mother shifted in her seat uncomfortably.
Skree cleared his throat. "Inventive as it is, a story about people who's mustaches control what they say is... AHHHHHHH!" Skree's calm demeanor was shattered as Harold suddenly vaulted across the desk, a glimmering strait razor glinting in his fingers.
Harold's poor mother was aggressively shoved aside as two burley men appeared from nowhere to subdue the ranting author. "I can cut it off, Mr. Skree! You don't know what you're saying! Let me cut it off, Mr. Skree! It's making you say these things!"
After the disarming and forcible removal of Harold from the office, Skree and Mrs. Bansay sat silently contemplating one another. "Mrs. Bansay... Um, I believe your son will be at the police station on 3rd and Morris." He offered a pained smile of consolation. "May I validate your parking?"
'Those teeth,' thought Harold's mother.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Figments
Outside, winds lift skirts and debris. Men with hard livers wipe their faces as they exit dim rooms of pungent air. Branches lash at their supporting trunks, agitated by ghosts and figments and dreams.
Inside, isobars coast in smooth tandem over the pull of a vibrant map. Their brilliant shift and sweep chart dark disturbance, predicting the hereafter. Specters in this box of lights and the shade in my thoughts leer.
The rock-stars of my youth have been sucked into the maw of their muses. Left to rattle my windows, the wraiths of their hot deaths howl like wolves in the wind. The world through the window tilts with the gusts, yet it feels like I'm the one leaning; being bent akimbo by haunts.
Dogs bark in my dreams.
Inside, isobars coast in smooth tandem over the pull of a vibrant map. Their brilliant shift and sweep chart dark disturbance, predicting the hereafter. Specters in this box of lights and the shade in my thoughts leer.
The rock-stars of my youth have been sucked into the maw of their muses. Left to rattle my windows, the wraiths of their hot deaths howl like wolves in the wind. The world through the window tilts with the gusts, yet it feels like I'm the one leaning; being bent akimbo by haunts.
Dogs bark in my dreams.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Zippers & Nuts & 8 & 0
Tegan and I went to a Squirrel Nut Zippers concert last night. We (Tegan, actually) was able to procure the signature of both singers and founding members, Jim Mathas and Katharine Whalen.
We approached Jim as he mingled between opening acts, haranguing women with his disarming southern charm. He turned to us with the reek of malt. Obviously plastered, he scrawled "Tegan, *scribble* 2009" across the front of our cd liner. We recoiled to a safe distance.
Katharine was sitting alone after the show. She was gracious and genuinely nice as she put her name on her picture in the booklet. Looking back, we regretted not asking her to accompany us for a drink.
It was 80 degrees here yesterday. Tegan got a sunburn. I wonder if there is still snow on the ground in Wisconsin. Probably not much.
We approached Jim as he mingled between opening acts, haranguing women with his disarming southern charm. He turned to us with the reek of malt. Obviously plastered, he scrawled "Tegan, *scribble* 2009" across the front of our cd liner. We recoiled to a safe distance.
Katharine was sitting alone after the show. She was gracious and genuinely nice as she put her name on her picture in the booklet. Looking back, we regretted not asking her to accompany us for a drink.
It was 80 degrees here yesterday. Tegan got a sunburn. I wonder if there is still snow on the ground in Wisconsin. Probably not much.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Hazel
What is the essence of a comfortable chair?
Is it the consistency of it's stuffing, the supportive lift of it's foam flesh? The specific way it buttresses our posteriors?
Perhaps its the upholstery. Leather (or faux) is durable and stylish, yet sticky on the backs of legs and occasionally inhumane. Plushy fuzz is delightfully soft on a bare bottom (tee hee) yet acts like a sponge for filth, which is, of course, the reason one should avoid seating the bare bottom upon them. Suede scuffs like an infant's skin, and is best avoided where boisterousness may ensue.
Maybe comfort is in the color. Do we revel in seats shrouded with scintillating stain? Or possibly we picture ourselves as others see us, seated on our fashionable accessory. Fashion screams wealth, which is why so many good folks want $300 for a used La-Z-Boy on Craigslist.
My chair is comfy, and I know why. From it's vantage, I am assured my favorite view: my wife's eyes. Whether they grace me with the steeple brow of tired patronization or squint with frustrated confusion, I will see them from my chair. Rest assured, in a troubled world. And that is comforting.
Is it the consistency of it's stuffing, the supportive lift of it's foam flesh? The specific way it buttresses our posteriors?
Perhaps its the upholstery. Leather (or faux) is durable and stylish, yet sticky on the backs of legs and occasionally inhumane. Plushy fuzz is delightfully soft on a bare bottom (tee hee) yet acts like a sponge for filth, which is, of course, the reason one should avoid seating the bare bottom upon them. Suede scuffs like an infant's skin, and is best avoided where boisterousness may ensue.
Maybe comfort is in the color. Do we revel in seats shrouded with scintillating stain? Or possibly we picture ourselves as others see us, seated on our fashionable accessory. Fashion screams wealth, which is why so many good folks want $300 for a used La-Z-Boy on Craigslist.
My chair is comfy, and I know why. From it's vantage, I am assured my favorite view: my wife's eyes. Whether they grace me with the steeple brow of tired patronization or squint with frustrated confusion, I will see them from my chair. Rest assured, in a troubled world. And that is comforting.
Monday, April 13, 2009
insomnia, anxiety, insomnia, repeat
3AM. My eyes pop open, wide and unwilling to close. With all possible stealth, I twist my head to glance at the clock. Over the next 3 hours I will twist in the sheets without relief.
Like a children's round-song in the key of shit, insomnia and anxiety perpetually chase each other. I fall asleep just fine when I first retire, but over the last several nights I've been awakened sick with dread. I breathe and tell myself to calm down, that stress only shortens the life-span, which is no comfort. Adding to the discomfort are the nightmares that always follow this nightly waking ritual.
If I am able to reclaim my slumber, horrible visions will shake me from sleep every 45 minutes. Lately, they have been chain-dreams: I awake from a dream about my dog being replaced by a doppleganger. I am having a heart-attack in bed, and Tegan rushes to get her stethoscope and the phone. My chest is burning, then I realize that Tegan is in her full scrubs, at which point I awake again. The room around me is disintegrating. There are holes in the plaster and voices at the door. I awake again.
I attempt to relax by following the blotches in the murk behind my eyelids. Normally, dark and light splotches dance like reverse footage of ink drops in water, sucking into the recesses of my skull in a soothing flow. But lately, their liquid blooms have been replaced by an out of focus bramble-patch. Last night, a banshee appeared in sudden clarity, with one large cycloptic eye and strangely fine teeth that chattered in a comically threatening way. Where have my ink blots gone?
There is one culprit that may be behind this. Tegan complains of anxiety when she drinks diet soda, or at least a jitteriness we attributed to the caffeine. I have been drinking an all natural diet ginger ale that doesn't have caffeine or aspartame, but I plan on cutting it and seeing if it cures this awful ailment.
Like a children's round-song in the key of shit, insomnia and anxiety perpetually chase each other. I fall asleep just fine when I first retire, but over the last several nights I've been awakened sick with dread. I breathe and tell myself to calm down, that stress only shortens the life-span, which is no comfort. Adding to the discomfort are the nightmares that always follow this nightly waking ritual.
If I am able to reclaim my slumber, horrible visions will shake me from sleep every 45 minutes. Lately, they have been chain-dreams: I awake from a dream about my dog being replaced by a doppleganger. I am having a heart-attack in bed, and Tegan rushes to get her stethoscope and the phone. My chest is burning, then I realize that Tegan is in her full scrubs, at which point I awake again. The room around me is disintegrating. There are holes in the plaster and voices at the door. I awake again.
I attempt to relax by following the blotches in the murk behind my eyelids. Normally, dark and light splotches dance like reverse footage of ink drops in water, sucking into the recesses of my skull in a soothing flow. But lately, their liquid blooms have been replaced by an out of focus bramble-patch. Last night, a banshee appeared in sudden clarity, with one large cycloptic eye and strangely fine teeth that chattered in a comically threatening way. Where have my ink blots gone?
There is one culprit that may be behind this. Tegan complains of anxiety when she drinks diet soda, or at least a jitteriness we attributed to the caffeine. I have been drinking an all natural diet ginger ale that doesn't have caffeine or aspartame, but I plan on cutting it and seeing if it cures this awful ailment.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
In Quad We Trust
Fishnets and tattoos. Frilly skirts that are too short and pink underpants that peek out from beneath. Crash helmets and beer.
Tegan and I went to the roller-derby last night. At first, reading the rules in the program, I was baffled. There are more refs than active players on the ring, but after 2 minutes I understood why. Some of them call points, some penalties.
A cluster of nylons and kneepads jostle each other as they coast round and round. The crowd yells and stomps a thunderous rumble on the metal bleachers as one blonde bomber from the "Church of St8in" levels a competitor from the out-of-town "Terrimedix" as she tries to pass, sending her sprawling into the spectators kneeing in the crash-zone. I might add that according to announcements, in order to sit there you must be 18 and cannot be drinking beer. You also may not help any of the girls up.
Enormous entertainment. We know a few of the skaters. One of them, a polish girl who works at the dog wash, always seemed very nonassertive and a little meek, but her skating name is Slavic Slayer and she was throwing some nasty blocks.
Yup. I think we'll be doing that again.
Tegan and I went to the roller-derby last night. At first, reading the rules in the program, I was baffled. There are more refs than active players on the ring, but after 2 minutes I understood why. Some of them call points, some penalties.
A cluster of nylons and kneepads jostle each other as they coast round and round. The crowd yells and stomps a thunderous rumble on the metal bleachers as one blonde bomber from the "Church of St8in" levels a competitor from the out-of-town "Terrimedix" as she tries to pass, sending her sprawling into the spectators kneeing in the crash-zone. I might add that according to announcements, in order to sit there you must be 18 and cannot be drinking beer. You also may not help any of the girls up.
Enormous entertainment. We know a few of the skaters. One of them, a polish girl who works at the dog wash, always seemed very nonassertive and a little meek, but her skating name is Slavic Slayer and she was throwing some nasty blocks.
Yup. I think we'll be doing that again.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
deep thoughts
I've been seriously examining my existence. The shoes of my soul-searching are battered by the constant kicking of my self esteem. I've got questions.
First of all (and of the least importance), should I go back to school? Pursue a more fulfilling career? Do something that gives myself meaning? Join a Guatemalan paramilitary group?
And all this questioning muckrakes other disturbing quandaries. Why do I write? What compels this desire... Why do tiny fragments of prose spring uninvited and unevictable from my brain. Like today, folding laundry: His face betrayed mistrust, like a dog with ears pinned back. Or unwritten stories that could go anywhere: I'm not going to divulge the one that popped into my head earlier, because I don't like to spoil surprises.
Does this all mean something? Am I supposed to pursue this, and if so, how will I eat? Or do most people have this and just not remember it a moment later.
First of all (and of the least importance), should I go back to school? Pursue a more fulfilling career? Do something that gives myself meaning? Join a Guatemalan paramilitary group?
And all this questioning muckrakes other disturbing quandaries. Why do I write? What compels this desire... Why do tiny fragments of prose spring uninvited and unevictable from my brain. Like today, folding laundry: His face betrayed mistrust, like a dog with ears pinned back. Or unwritten stories that could go anywhere: I'm not going to divulge the one that popped into my head earlier, because I don't like to spoil surprises.
Does this all mean something? Am I supposed to pursue this, and if so, how will I eat? Or do most people have this and just not remember it a moment later.
Monday, April 6, 2009
cheat
I'm involved in an affair, neglecting my faithful companion for a sleeker model.
I'm speaking about my bikes, of course.
For several years my personal local transport was attended to by a handsome, chromed commuter cycle. It has a leather seat and matching grips, a 3 speed hub and coaster brake that operates as well in the rains as the sunshine. It's fold out baskets can handle a bag of groceries each, or a case of beer. It's quality steel frame tips the scale at a hefty 45 pounds, and even in the highest gear only lumbers along at a slow jog.
Several months back, I picked up an old road bike from a coworker in exchange for a crumpled $20 bill. First came the uncomfortable adoption, the wobbling uncertainties of this funny new posture. Just when I began to gain some confidence, a skidding spill dampened my relations with this new machine.
I feel a little pang of guilt hopping atop this slick roller as my trusty, chromed warhorse leans neglected. But I can't help myself, and the reason is simple. I like to go fast. I do draw the line at some things: I do not believe that my bodily hair causes any noticeable drag and therefore will be keeping it. Spandex is very unforgiving and is better left to superheros and people I do not have to look at.
Perhaps I will tire of this new fascination and return to the comfortable rumble of my dutch bike. Maybe.
I'm speaking about my bikes, of course.
For several years my personal local transport was attended to by a handsome, chromed commuter cycle. It has a leather seat and matching grips, a 3 speed hub and coaster brake that operates as well in the rains as the sunshine. It's fold out baskets can handle a bag of groceries each, or a case of beer. It's quality steel frame tips the scale at a hefty 45 pounds, and even in the highest gear only lumbers along at a slow jog.
Several months back, I picked up an old road bike from a coworker in exchange for a crumpled $20 bill. First came the uncomfortable adoption, the wobbling uncertainties of this funny new posture. Just when I began to gain some confidence, a skidding spill dampened my relations with this new machine.
I feel a little pang of guilt hopping atop this slick roller as my trusty, chromed warhorse leans neglected. But I can't help myself, and the reason is simple. I like to go fast. I do draw the line at some things: I do not believe that my bodily hair causes any noticeable drag and therefore will be keeping it. Spandex is very unforgiving and is better left to superheros and people I do not have to look at.
Perhaps I will tire of this new fascination and return to the comfortable rumble of my dutch bike. Maybe.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Do not resuscitate
Edward awoke alone. The sticky dark that greased his eyes was troubling. When had this night come?
His fingers glanced something smooth as he rose from the mattress, and for an instant he froze. After a panicked moment a memory fluttered from the muck. The bottle. How had it all come to this?
Ed pressed the squishy orbs of his eyeballs deeper into their sockets and tired to think. Ice rattled in the familiar tumbler as he located the bottle in the black. Waving his hand like a lost relative left at the gas station, his fingers eventually scraped the smooth surface of his remaining friend. His inflammatory companion. His fiery liquid love.
Fumbling with his free hand through the pockets of his discarded jeans, eventually he was able to free the ring of keys. He returned to the door for the hundredth time and began the ritual. One by one he pressed their corrugated faces against the unyielding keyhole. One by one they were rejected. Options exhausted, he slumped at his desk in his underpants. His gaze glossed at the sweating glass. His frowning lips craved. His frowning eyes desired.
*** Don't worry, this is not a continuing story. Just a blip. Believe it or not, this is complete. ***
His fingers glanced something smooth as he rose from the mattress, and for an instant he froze. After a panicked moment a memory fluttered from the muck. The bottle. How had it all come to this?
Ed pressed the squishy orbs of his eyeballs deeper into their sockets and tired to think. Ice rattled in the familiar tumbler as he located the bottle in the black. Waving his hand like a lost relative left at the gas station, his fingers eventually scraped the smooth surface of his remaining friend. His inflammatory companion. His fiery liquid love.
Fumbling with his free hand through the pockets of his discarded jeans, eventually he was able to free the ring of keys. He returned to the door for the hundredth time and began the ritual. One by one he pressed their corrugated faces against the unyielding keyhole. One by one they were rejected. Options exhausted, he slumped at his desk in his underpants. His gaze glossed at the sweating glass. His frowning lips craved. His frowning eyes desired.
*** Don't worry, this is not a continuing story. Just a blip. Believe it or not, this is complete. ***
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Fermentation fascination
As my wife returns to nursing school, spending time attending the sterilization of so many microorganisms, I return to solitude. My thoughts turn to tiny colonies of coconspirators, perhaps induced by the Hunter Green scrubs that the love of my life casts to the floor with such nonchalance. So I began a new experiment in fermentation which recently came to an end.
Currently Tegan is brewing a batch of ginger champagne, and at this late hour it is my only companion, slurring burbled excretions... the prayers of yeast colonies conversing with their blogging gods.
I started some radish sprouts today, and attended my shelling pea plants in the garden. I also aborted some sauerkraut that was curing on a shelf in the living room for the last few weeks. Apparently, I am not much good at measuring, and an overabundance of salt rendered the pressed shreds of cabbage inedible. A shame, really. I had grand plans.... a few slices of homemade Russian rye bread, a grilled slab of marinated tempeh, some swiss cheese and 'kraut. I'll just have to stick with the Tempeh Rubin sandwiches from Cornucopia restaurant (or Park Street Cafe, if I can make it there during their insanely limited hours).
***sigh***
Currently Tegan is brewing a batch of ginger champagne, and at this late hour it is my only companion, slurring burbled excretions... the prayers of yeast colonies conversing with their blogging gods.
I started some radish sprouts today, and attended my shelling pea plants in the garden. I also aborted some sauerkraut that was curing on a shelf in the living room for the last few weeks. Apparently, I am not much good at measuring, and an overabundance of salt rendered the pressed shreds of cabbage inedible. A shame, really. I had grand plans.... a few slices of homemade Russian rye bread, a grilled slab of marinated tempeh, some swiss cheese and 'kraut. I'll just have to stick with the Tempeh Rubin sandwiches from Cornucopia restaurant (or Park Street Cafe, if I can make it there during their insanely limited hours).
***sigh***
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