Hi Chris,
I figured I would finally try and get done that thing which I said I would write for you over a fricka-fracking month ago. As I intoned previously, it's not a typical letter and you should accept the fact that during most of it, I'm not actually talking directly to you. You're kind of just an audience. And this will likely make it's way into my bloggy thing at some point.
~ qed
PS –Oh yes. Please provide me your home address. I might have something to send your way.
Open Mic Burlesque
You can always tell the season has gone and changed when the right-minded scientologists have set up free stress tests at the 14th street subway. How accurate can a test be at a subway station? The people who conduct those readings seem to be hand picked, the men non-threatening, the women vaguely hot. Yes dear, spring has arrived. My allergies are welling up and my eyes are lingering just a little too long on the girls wearing skirts and tank tops. This season is both blessing and curse, as are most things. I work in East Midtown. Man, that place has an entirely different pace and look than anywhere else I've earned pay. Less tourists, more businessmen, which I guess I nearly fit into anymore. Well, no blackberry, no corporate account, or money to speak of. But I have to wear a business jacket. At least I don't have a tie. Or maybe I'm expected to wear one but nobody has the heart to tell me. It's best that way. I never learned how to tie a tie. Knots confuse me. Knots, women, most math, cooking and conversations I find pointless all confuse me pretty much equally. I have a cold.
My friends were whispering to me about Kolob once again, that mysterious place closest in the cosmos to the gold and ivory throne of our flesh and bone incarnation of the one lord and savior. And neither salamander nor a slew of ancillary wives might sway the heavy hand of the grievous reckoning of prophecy. Would we ever set foot on those shorelines, lemon yellows sands leading off to emerald undulating grasslands, then dense enshrouding forests. I'm not sure anymore, not of myself nor the line of succession and I fear the wise council of the quorum has no direct line to give. Despite the laying of hands and the warm water baptism, we are only too human, and surrounded on all sides by the behest and truly awful stares of charlatans. The Palmyra bred indifference. So much for that blind faith, that olde tyme religion. I had more questions than you might be able to count, let alone answer.
Finding myself inexorably closer to the tinsel and tacky of Times Square, I caught site of a man about town in close consort with an obvious escort, her rose red top bound and wrapped close against her thick body, pushing the heft and cleave of her ample breasts skyward, for the world to see. I watched while walking past, the gent allowing his lips to lightly brush against her unblemished olive toned neck. She smiled and darted her tongue out, wiggling the ring in her lower lip, brushing back a length of straight streaked hair. In that brief moment with either slow reggae or ceaseless house music throbbing from my ear buds I sort of recalled why I came here to live and get older. But the insufferable seasons have stretched on so much longer than I'd hoped. Don't we all look so much older now?
Jeff let his shoes clack audibly on the flecked tiles of the cinder block built hallway, all painted non threatening pastels and colors resembling manila folders. Lined as far as he could see were old metal lockers, the dials built into them. He guessed half were empty, the others with jackets, old gym clothes, two or three books that were never ever used for any class ever and maybe a few here and there with a couple bags of cheap weed, the only kind a sophomore could hope to score regularly. Class had ended for the day so everything was mostly silent, there was no heavy creaking against hinges nor the slam as the mechanism sealed itself thoughtlessly. No gossip, no dirt, just the occasion loose leaf of paper trodded on, dusty ceaselessly random, alone under the static halogen hum of over head light beams. Someone once said the best years of your life happened here, but really on what system would you measure that?
The Five Stages
Imagine still those same bland hallways, those same echoing spaces where i whiled away a good four years, just passing through. At first you mocked me when i was utterly young and gangly and as time slid on we grew inexplicably close, drawn together despite disparate lives, wildly unconforming interests. The first stairwell where we kissed, lord, that was ridiculous and awkward. You said there was a quiet charm about me, though I’m not sure I could believe you. Skipping school in the early morning to spend an entire day in bed, doing… well you know what we did. We were seventeen, what else could we do? The wild consequence of youth is that your mind thinks everything has an easy answer, and your plans will just spill out exactly as you envision them. It was so fucking easy. Months pass and buying trinkets and symbolic objects, planning the next phase of our lives. Funny it was written out in our minds in such dark black ink but in the end, not one aspect of it ever came to pass. I wanted to act like I regretted it, but in the end we were hideously different and had different tracks to travel. I tell these things to old friend when we’re in loud shitty bars. I always hope you made your way in the world well, or at least better than me. If you’re ding better than me, then i know you’re doing just fine. Your sea blue eyes and kinky fair hair, pale soft skin decked out in something resembling fashion, telling me to do things I know I shouldn’t do. But the messes we made, the life we cast down the pan, it was for the best, wasn’t it? But as I said, you’re long gone. Last I heard, up the great river, prolly living with someone much kinder than I ever was, though I used to be kind once. The kind of person who would mark a calendar and remember the dates of significant events. I’ve forgotten your birthday, anything really significant. It’s all just airy phantoms that rise up out of the murky tides and then sink back down again. But we first fucked on January 9th, 1998. That I do remember. But don’t worry. I won’t kiss and tell.
I’d like to pretend there was more to our meeting, but it was all arranged out of convenience. You were unfulfilled and I wanted, well, of course, you know what I wanted. We played around for a time but then things fell apart and I slipped into you and for a brief few weeks, everything was fine, relatively. I still don’t care for most of your music though.
For the center peg i swear i can’t tell you if our connection was cemented through the written word or the bottle. I like to think it was more so the former, but something tells me we were bound to the latter. Everything I could have reasonably wanted in another could have been found in your Irish skin. We even wrote up lists (well, you did seriously… I just humored your own good conscience). We got wrapped up in a number of messes, cheated on people almost for the fun the disorder presented us with. But I couldn’t help it all. My sentiments are flighty. Can’t rest in one place to long. Have to pull out and go elsewhere. And your best friend seemed like a nice place to land.
But she’s the real ghost now, isn’t she? Perpetually goofy, perpetually young. That disquieting disinterested junkie. We all slept while you went ahead and died. I want to pretend I know what I meant to you, but your words were always tragically vague.
After a good rest, a long trip through the forests and swamps I’ve found myself right here and we’ve been this way now six years. I guess we’ve got all the trappings of a common conventional relationship. I’d like us to be happier, working towards a goal. Even if this relationship isn’t, you know, real we can at least make it look more enviable as opposed to terrifying. You’ll be home again, never to leave. I’ll pick up some Chinese food. Since that’s all we have left. I still have a cold.
Three Graces
Aglaea
Kevin, that’s my brother, he was mumbling about what our lives used to be like, the things we used to care about and spend time fretting over in the 90’s. As always his thoughts were at a level totally disconnected with myself. Then I started to understand. Everyone just wants to slip back, even if just briefly, into that one short moment from childhood when things were so less confusing. Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about those lazy high school years when I had a perfect picture of the future. Anger wasn’t really my angle back then, though it never really has been. No, I’d like to think I’m slightly more benevolent than all that shit. As it stands though there isn’t any going back and maybe the truth is all those rosy memories are just lies I tell myself to pretend the past is worth remembering. How have we come this far? Afternoons spent driving an old used car through the suburban developments we all pretended were much more fulfilling than they could ever hope to be. Not this time though, I’ve got me mine and that’s all I really need anymore.
Euphrosyne
Got to get you out of my head. Really, that’s been the case my entire life. All these years past, six now isn’t it. Can’t really tell you why what happened happened. Every answer I try to dream up doesn’t really justify all these misguided actions. But you were too young. Each of us were too young, immature. Days have stretched along and by now I’m sure you’ve grown to hate the very thought of my face. Well, you shouldn’t be too concerned about that since you’re joining a great group of consistent haters. Every time I think I’ve built up the bravery to make these things concrete, I slink away into the muck again. Lamenting, I’ll always say I’m sorry to you. Lamenting, I’ll always say I’m sorry to you.
Thalia
Just once I’d like to pretend that I really knew what you were like. Essentially my only connection to you were a few short passages in break between classes, the rush from room to room and lecture to lecture. So that’s why I love you the most. Since I really know nothing about you I can imprint whatever beauty I want you to possess and for all intents and purposes you perfect as the distant beauty you are. I suppose I could say hello again, it’s so easy anyway, pretend that we were on any kind of wavelength. Clearly though I would lose a lot of what I hold dear in that action. After all I’ve lost though, is it really that much anymore? Having your face there, to see once again, to admire, that’s really all I think I’ve ever wanted. Everyone else wants a mate; I just want someone to look with kindness upon. Roses and other trinkets that I gave to girls, they don’t really mean a shit to someone like me, and you know what I am right? Zero. Finally I can just admit it; I’m nothing special. Everyone else is out there, being swept towards some sort of self-fulfilling goal in the old long tide, but I just stay still. Let’s pretend we’re in the midst of continental drift and you’re drawing slowly, inexorably towards me. Don’t you think it would be terrific to impact?
I’m just here, waiting for you, but you knew that all along. Maybe I’ve phrased it differently once, long ago, when pages like this could sway one’s chastity. But we’re winding down; at least I am anymore. This all takes quite a bit out of me, but you need only just plod on a little bit. Late last night as I was walking home I noted the moon, huge and orange just hovering against the horizon line. I wanted to make my way down the street it seemed to sit at the end of, so sure was I that if I kept walking, I’d eventually be amongst the glassy dust and craters of that distant Luna. But I also wanted dinner so I went home instead. Drone. The wind never howls in the summertime.
Stay sane. Be rational. Just calm down. Yes dear. That’s fine. Don’t be startled. Raise no alarms. We’re all fine. Long day passed. No more worries. No more sunlight. All just goodbyes. Gonna quit smoking. Not right now. In awhile. It’s late now. Have to leave. Not with you. We’re different. No more muses. Not right here. I still wish. Wake up late. Back in bed. Morning routine. It’s a killer. No more blues. No more dreaming. All just sunshine. Born back again. Repeat and repeating. Wait here. Wait for me. Nothing is working. Trying too hard. Know-nothings. No more needs. All just wanting. Only one direction. Forward evermore. With shuteyes. Or looking back. The world outside. I forgot it. All of it. Every building. Every building. I miss mountains. Anywhere else. That’s just fine. Damn good disguise. You’re not here. Neither am I. We don’t count. No more wars. No more disorder. Just stasis. Everything’s perpetual. All just eventually. That chaste gaze. Long bold nights. Hello heartache. Bound to this. We all are. Morning sun. Never ending. I will wait. Just a bit. No, longer.
I am standing still and I cannot fall down.
Things needle along lazily all across the frets. There’s a nice strong build to the ceaseless motion and chirrup of faceless nameless artists, as they should be. Existing in the vague realm of unknowing and baseless accusation. Collect me up, like trading cards, and applaud all this useless effort. Come tomorrow you’ll find me mad and grave. Tanks amongst city streets. The wired and edgy guard, keeping it safe for you. Tempestuous and coercive. The silly and lighthearted refrains of my callous friends immersed in blood we’ve just now shed. The truest sense of curfew. Locked down and stifling. No electricity. And nowhere left to run. The unwelcoming darkness, what might unfold from that unforgiving blackness? I’ve stood here, ten clicks from the green walls, that neverland of false dreams and figures that don’t mean anything in any sense of the real world. Liars. All of them just lie. There is no forgiveness when you rest your prayers on your knees. Just a sniggering buffoon before the pulpit, coughing out mangled catchphrases. Anther little joke to amuse as we march headstrong into the tumultuous oblivion. All grey and soot choked, sandstorm dark, blocking out alleyways and walled enclosures. If we can agree on nothing else, then perhaps we can both nod to this fact. Here there are no blind. There are no answers, but we all see these facts scutter by, like roaches when the lights are clapped on again. I present this all to you. Should forgiveness be so slack? Can the petty truly be called masters? Are all sins equal in viciousness; is the conception of sin the same as carrying out the task? Can guilt be measured? You’ve sinned, not as much as me, not with a black heart, not hoping for despair. But we’ve all cast ourselves to the flames and one white washed looked is just as ridden with worms as my guileless wanderer’s eyes.
Proletarian posters, locked arm working class daemons. I try not to be cynical to the nature of men. For betterment, that’s what they claim. But how little can we pay you to do the work. What does it cost to keep your little beak wet? One hundred and fifty dollars a day. Half that in a cheaper home. Stay healthy or it’ll cost you. Lord knows; I’m trying so hard. One persistent cough. That’s my only symptom.
My bed is warm, it always is. It’s always occupied by either myself or someone close, or close for the sake of having nowhere left to run. Everyone hides there just once, then they escape to greener pastures. But my bed is mine and I find the turnover comforting. If I cannot kick you out openly then I’ll so it with little scratches, like a fingernail drawn against a wood door, which eventually is, whittled straight through.
There aren’t any gutters anymore. They’re no different than any other place we find ourselves. I swear to you, I can watch day by day as this entire city falls apart. Let it. Like everyone said when my mother’s sister died, it’s no great loss.
Countdown.
We’ve already said what is to become. We’ve also mentioned what’s been. I told you about all my friends, or people I call my friends. They make mistakes. But I guess we all do. Mistakes are universal, more so than language or heroics. No matter though. Just another sip of the krovy. I am calm. I’m going home.
Would that we could escape all this. In some tropical landscape where it’s all just backwater regards, we could dance in fast moving circles. Sweat forming, making our bodies slick and unsightly. Around a forever burning pyre. Bang the drum. Never grow older. We dwell in the night. Like panthers. We’re wild beasts.
~qed
