...but you already know that old chestnut.
Here's another old chestnut: I have not been posting lately. I am incredibly remiss and derelict in my self-proposed writing goals, and I feel pretty awful about it. I feel hopeless and helpless, which is never a good combination.
I've been grinding away at the same poem for almost a week now. Looking at it swamps me with misery, which is half the problem why it isn't done--I almost can't bear to look it over. The other half is, of course, that I am not yet satisfied. It's definitely missing something and I have no clue how to fix it. Today I separated it into stanzas (of a fashion) to see if I could spot the problem. Is it the order? Have I said too much? Not enough? I have a sinking feeling that I may have accidentally jammed two separate poems into one, and now they're having awkward hookup sex, and really both of them would rather be alone, but they're too polite to go their separate ways.
Entropy is going nowhere fast. I'm overwhelmed with the scope of what I hope to orchestrate in the next chapter. Knowing it's going to be something of a montage showing the development of the main characters' friendship does not help. It's still a lot to do.
I have been unable to work on any old original stuff or start any fresh. I think it's fair to say I don't have my heart in it right now, because every time I squeeze a sentence out it looks bad and I toss it in the garbage. A rookie mistake and all the more discouraging for that.
And yet, I keep trying, am driven to try.
~ciao
31 January 2010
12 January 2010
Diseases are icky.
I know, I've been missing for a couple days. I've been severely lacking in motivation to do anything constructive...in fact, I've done a pretty good job avoiding the things I want to accomplish.
Today, though, I have a small piece of a freewrite. This isn't the whole thing, but I'm really struggling to process how I feel about the part I'm not posting. I'll probably have to write more of it before I've resolved the problem (and still I might not post the rest of it.)
---
Harry had an unreasonable fear of gangrene. He’d never experienced it, nor had he ever known anyone who had. And, as a receptionist in the office of an obstetrician, the likelihood he would encounter gangrene in the workplace was very slim.
Harry wasn’t the adventurous type. He considered an evening in to be the best sort. He had a record collection, focused on pre-World War II opera divas. While he had cd doubles of some of his collection, much of it couldn’t be found on cd. Harry preferred to use his record player, at any rate. He felt closer to the singers. His interest in movies was also pre-World War II; he liked the silent, black-and-whites much more than what passed for cinema these days…though he conceded the creation of the DVD was probably a good thing. He didn’t have to worry about wearing out his vhs tapes anymore. Harry also had a cat, Burt. Burt was quiet, middle aged, and seemed to enjoy the opera as well. He was a good lap cat. Burt didn’t complain if Harry to the same album over and over.
Harry’s taste in clothing tended to button down shirts and sweater vests. Occasionally his co-workers teased him about being an old man before his time, but largely he didn’t mind. He had a comfortable, safe life with a comfortable, safe routine, surrounded by the things that gave him the most satisfaction.
But Harry still feared gangrene. He feared it so much that any slight deviation in his health was attributed to it. Suspicious moles, stubbed toes, a scratch gained while riding the subway…all of it pointed to gangrene. He had not one, but two physicians. They were both on his speed dial. He had a small library of medical texts and a special book with nothing but photographs of the various stages and permutations of gangrene.
He spent two hours before work each day examining himself in the bathroom mirrors, comparing himself to the pictures in the book. Burt assisted and encouraged. And then, after dinner but before his bath and his time with his movies and opera divas, Harry would spend another hour on a quick check for gangrene which might have developed during the work day.
---
I too have a fear of gangrene, but more in a general "that's really gross" way, not a "holy crap is that gangrene on my body?!?!?" way. I believe it's hardwired in the species to fear visible grossness. You know, the whole deal about not wanting to eat a delicious meal if it's being served up on a garbage can lid (whether or not the lid is used, clean, sterilized, or new.)
Maybe I should write more about the scary things that, were I a different person, could rule my life and change the way I behave. Nightmares are always rich soil for creativity, even if they are unpleasant.
~Later
Today, though, I have a small piece of a freewrite. This isn't the whole thing, but I'm really struggling to process how I feel about the part I'm not posting. I'll probably have to write more of it before I've resolved the problem (and still I might not post the rest of it.)
---
Harry had an unreasonable fear of gangrene. He’d never experienced it, nor had he ever known anyone who had. And, as a receptionist in the office of an obstetrician, the likelihood he would encounter gangrene in the workplace was very slim.
Harry wasn’t the adventurous type. He considered an evening in to be the best sort. He had a record collection, focused on pre-World War II opera divas. While he had cd doubles of some of his collection, much of it couldn’t be found on cd. Harry preferred to use his record player, at any rate. He felt closer to the singers. His interest in movies was also pre-World War II; he liked the silent, black-and-whites much more than what passed for cinema these days…though he conceded the creation of the DVD was probably a good thing. He didn’t have to worry about wearing out his vhs tapes anymore. Harry also had a cat, Burt. Burt was quiet, middle aged, and seemed to enjoy the opera as well. He was a good lap cat. Burt didn’t complain if Harry to the same album over and over.
Harry’s taste in clothing tended to button down shirts and sweater vests. Occasionally his co-workers teased him about being an old man before his time, but largely he didn’t mind. He had a comfortable, safe life with a comfortable, safe routine, surrounded by the things that gave him the most satisfaction.
But Harry still feared gangrene. He feared it so much that any slight deviation in his health was attributed to it. Suspicious moles, stubbed toes, a scratch gained while riding the subway…all of it pointed to gangrene. He had not one, but two physicians. They were both on his speed dial. He had a small library of medical texts and a special book with nothing but photographs of the various stages and permutations of gangrene.
He spent two hours before work each day examining himself in the bathroom mirrors, comparing himself to the pictures in the book. Burt assisted and encouraged. And then, after dinner but before his bath and his time with his movies and opera divas, Harry would spend another hour on a quick check for gangrene which might have developed during the work day.
---
I too have a fear of gangrene, but more in a general "that's really gross" way, not a "holy crap is that gangrene on my body?!?!?" way. I believe it's hardwired in the species to fear visible grossness. You know, the whole deal about not wanting to eat a delicious meal if it's being served up on a garbage can lid (whether or not the lid is used, clean, sterilized, or new.)
Maybe I should write more about the scary things that, were I a different person, could rule my life and change the way I behave. Nightmares are always rich soil for creativity, even if they are unpleasant.
~Later
09 January 2010
What a Crock.
Quick freewrite. I've been thinking about this all day.
---
Mass Hysteria
It happened like this:
Once upon a time, there was a planet, occupied by men and women. The men did manly things, like shooting guns and playing sports and earning money, which they brought home to their wives, who did womanly things like have babies and cook dinner and knit wooly socks. This system worked rather well for the men and not so well for the women.
So, gradually, women started joining a massive Cult of Ideas. No one knew who founded it, exactly, but women all over the world joined it with the belief that chores and wage-earning and everything that made up their lives should be shared equally between men and women. They went through great pains to keep this society secret from men, because the men were sure to try to nip this rebellion in the bud, seeing as the current status quo was just fine for them.
This Cult of Ideas crept into the lives of the women over many, many years, and it became less of a secular idea and more of a religious one. Its members started praying to a universal Goddess to help them change things and make it all even between men and women. (By this time, men had become even more stuffy and unwilling to change the way things are, because the way things are is the way things always have been, and who wants to break up that sort of history anyway?)
And so it came to pass, on this planet inhabited by men and women, that a wave of mass hysteria swept the planet, and the men of the planet panicked like nothing else. You see, for a very long time, “mass hysteria” was a purely mind-over-matter issue of panic and delusion. Men knew this, and they also knew that it was a woman thing, having its roots in the womb, center of all of those uncontrollable, dangerous emotions found in women. Men didn’t have hysteria.
But, possibly through alien experimentation, maybe through the power of the years of women’s prayers, men all over the world suddenly developed wombs of their own. The men panicked like there was no tomorrow. And the women laughed themselves sick before they did anything else, like try and help the men adjust to this abrupt anatomical phenomenon.
----
This idea may sound completely cracked out, but it's not half as crazy as this show I was watching today, an anime in which a little boy lives in a jungle with his mom. And one day his mom inexplicably adopts a strange little girl who eats everything (like statues and people everything) and the stuff she eats gets sent to a different dimension...inside of her. And she can spit the stuff out again if she really wants. It's insane but insanely cute. Plus, it has the bonus of having one of my favorite voice actors in it.
Anway! Back to mass hysteria! I've always thought it was kind of a strange term. Sexist, yes, but also weird. And anyway, these days "mass" is always about cancer...or church. But mostly cancer.
My brains are going to explode out of my aching skull, and I'm still not free of yesterday's ailments. I should go to bed, maybe?
~Later
---
Mass Hysteria
It happened like this:
Once upon a time, there was a planet, occupied by men and women. The men did manly things, like shooting guns and playing sports and earning money, which they brought home to their wives, who did womanly things like have babies and cook dinner and knit wooly socks. This system worked rather well for the men and not so well for the women.
So, gradually, women started joining a massive Cult of Ideas. No one knew who founded it, exactly, but women all over the world joined it with the belief that chores and wage-earning and everything that made up their lives should be shared equally between men and women. They went through great pains to keep this society secret from men, because the men were sure to try to nip this rebellion in the bud, seeing as the current status quo was just fine for them.
This Cult of Ideas crept into the lives of the women over many, many years, and it became less of a secular idea and more of a religious one. Its members started praying to a universal Goddess to help them change things and make it all even between men and women. (By this time, men had become even more stuffy and unwilling to change the way things are, because the way things are is the way things always have been, and who wants to break up that sort of history anyway?)
And so it came to pass, on this planet inhabited by men and women, that a wave of mass hysteria swept the planet, and the men of the planet panicked like nothing else. You see, for a very long time, “mass hysteria” was a purely mind-over-matter issue of panic and delusion. Men knew this, and they also knew that it was a woman thing, having its roots in the womb, center of all of those uncontrollable, dangerous emotions found in women. Men didn’t have hysteria.
But, possibly through alien experimentation, maybe through the power of the years of women’s prayers, men all over the world suddenly developed wombs of their own. The men panicked like there was no tomorrow. And the women laughed themselves sick before they did anything else, like try and help the men adjust to this abrupt anatomical phenomenon.
----
This idea may sound completely cracked out, but it's not half as crazy as this show I was watching today, an anime in which a little boy lives in a jungle with his mom. And one day his mom inexplicably adopts a strange little girl who eats everything (like statues and people everything) and the stuff she eats gets sent to a different dimension...inside of her. And she can spit the stuff out again if she really wants. It's insane but insanely cute. Plus, it has the bonus of having one of my favorite voice actors in it.
Anway! Back to mass hysteria! I've always thought it was kind of a strange term. Sexist, yes, but also weird. And anyway, these days "mass" is always about cancer...or church. But mostly cancer.
My brains are going to explode out of my aching skull, and I'm still not free of yesterday's ailments. I should go to bed, maybe?
~Later
08 January 2010
What was I thinking?
I confess that physical weakness has been a stumbling block to my plans for today. I don't have a brand new spanking freewrite to share. I don't have a poem, either, and I doubt you want to read either of the anatomically-involved short lists I made today.
I was going to share a bit of fanfic, but I then realized that would involve drafting a disclaimer, and I had no idea who the original creator of the canon material was.
Better luck tomorrow, when, hopefully, it won't feel like someone's driving spikes into/through my lower back, hips, and thighs. Ugh. I just bet the weather's changing. After all, there is truth in the following saying: Old soliders and their wounds know the coming storm.
~Later
I was going to share a bit of fanfic, but I then realized that would involve drafting a disclaimer, and I had no idea who the original creator of the canon material was.
Better luck tomorrow, when, hopefully, it won't feel like someone's driving spikes into/through my lower back, hips, and thighs. Ugh. I just bet the weather's changing. After all, there is truth in the following saying: Old soliders and their wounds know the coming storm.
~Later
07 January 2010
What's in a name?
For some reason, I seem to write about names a lot. Here's a short snippet entirely devoted to it.
---
Prudence Chastity Maheux, age seventeen, was counting down the time until her eighteenth birthday, when she would legally be allowed to change her name. She didn’t know what her parents had been thinking, naming her that. Maybe her mom had still been high on painkillers when she put that down.
Since age ten, when she had realized it was patently uncool to share her names with the Pilgrims coming off the Mayflower, Prudence had been looking for a better name. Her parents had been calling her Prudie since she could first talk. No amount of argument could convince them that her new nickname (adopted age twelve) was Chaz. It was the most cool, smallest part of her soon-to-be-ex name. Still, she reflected, Chaz was a little bit too boyish for a forever name.
Prudence had been collecting names over the past seven-and-a-half years. She kept the list in a three ring binder. She’d write down names of movie and book characters, classmates, and celebrities. If she overheard a name she liked, it went into the notebook. She had several baby name books and she eagerly awaited the coming of new phone books with their thousands of intriguing entries.
She knew all about last names as first names, and names that bridged the gender gap. She knew some names that crossed from widely male usage into widely female and the converse. Prudence was of the opinion that many Germanic names were too harsh for what she wanted. French ones sounded too snooty. And the Celtic ones…Prudence couldn’t even pronounce half of them, let alone imagine calling herself by one.
Still, she had hundreds of names to choose from, and she spent a little time each day trying them out in front of the bathroom mirror. Otherwise, how would she know which one she was? Sometimes she liked one enough to try it out for a day or two, signing her new name on her school papers and refusing to answer to her (soon to be ex) name. Prudence had invested in some “Hello my name is” stickers and they were invaluable.
---
I always have a hard time naming characters. I can't imagine how hard it might be to name myself. I mean, I go by a nickname I've had for years, but it's derived from my full name. I don't know that I could find the perfect, right name for me starting cold from a list, even if I took years to suss it out. And as for legal name changes? I don't know that I could jettison my old name. My name has history and sentimental importance attached to it.
But, if I were a Prudence Chastity, I'd make the effort.
~Later
---
Prudence Chastity Maheux, age seventeen, was counting down the time until her eighteenth birthday, when she would legally be allowed to change her name. She didn’t know what her parents had been thinking, naming her that. Maybe her mom had still been high on painkillers when she put that down.
Since age ten, when she had realized it was patently uncool to share her names with the Pilgrims coming off the Mayflower, Prudence had been looking for a better name. Her parents had been calling her Prudie since she could first talk. No amount of argument could convince them that her new nickname (adopted age twelve) was Chaz. It was the most cool, smallest part of her soon-to-be-ex name. Still, she reflected, Chaz was a little bit too boyish for a forever name.
Prudence had been collecting names over the past seven-and-a-half years. She kept the list in a three ring binder. She’d write down names of movie and book characters, classmates, and celebrities. If she overheard a name she liked, it went into the notebook. She had several baby name books and she eagerly awaited the coming of new phone books with their thousands of intriguing entries.
She knew all about last names as first names, and names that bridged the gender gap. She knew some names that crossed from widely male usage into widely female and the converse. Prudence was of the opinion that many Germanic names were too harsh for what she wanted. French ones sounded too snooty. And the Celtic ones…Prudence couldn’t even pronounce half of them, let alone imagine calling herself by one.
Still, she had hundreds of names to choose from, and she spent a little time each day trying them out in front of the bathroom mirror. Otherwise, how would she know which one she was? Sometimes she liked one enough to try it out for a day or two, signing her new name on her school papers and refusing to answer to her (soon to be ex) name. Prudence had invested in some “Hello my name is” stickers and they were invaluable.
---
I always have a hard time naming characters. I can't imagine how hard it might be to name myself. I mean, I go by a nickname I've had for years, but it's derived from my full name. I don't know that I could find the perfect, right name for me starting cold from a list, even if I took years to suss it out. And as for legal name changes? I don't know that I could jettison my old name. My name has history and sentimental importance attached to it.
But, if I were a Prudence Chastity, I'd make the effort.
~Later
06 January 2010
The Dream Experience
So, for today's freewrite, a regurgitation of the dream I had whilst napping away the early evening hours.
----
I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and ended up smack in the middle of an alien invasion. I had been shopping in an antiques mall, hundreds of booths and corridors and staircases that looped around in a dizzying display of merchandise. I was stopped by an elderly gentleman who had apparently heard me whistling Beethoven and he wanted to know if I could sing. He gave me some sheet music and I embarrassedly admitted that my sight reading skills were bad. Nonetheless I sang for him.
And then things went wrong. People with clear torques around their necks started to crowd out the people without them. They started chasing me, relentless. They were going to collar me, make me one of them, an alien. Or, at least, under alien control because they were coming today. I ran and fought and tricked. I punched through walls and ceilings trying to get up and out, but the aliens were swarming near me. I asked the numerous cats lazing about for help, and they obliged. They collected, out of the antiques, necklaces that could serve as a fake torque. I had to slow down in my flight to try them on. I finally got one that fit and I made my way back to an alien, because no one had witnessed my deception. But there was a flaw in my plan: my necklace was not clear, but red.
The red necklace scared the other aliens. From what I could gather without revealing to myself, I was someone higher up in the invasion plan than the aliens had been anticipating seeing so soon. Still, sweating every inch of the way, I made my stately, deliberate way to the exit…and then I ran into my mom and I had to rescue her without raising suspicions and I was so, so afraid for her, much more than I feared for myself. I managed to get her to safety, and the aliens finally caught up to me.
They were going to hold me until their leaders arrived and, by then, I was so tired that I couldn’t fight any more. I basically laid down to die. I was so tired and sad because, really, there was nothing I could do anymore. And then I woke up…which I had tried to do earlier without success.
----
Ugh. I'm sick of alien invasions.
~Later
----
I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and ended up smack in the middle of an alien invasion. I had been shopping in an antiques mall, hundreds of booths and corridors and staircases that looped around in a dizzying display of merchandise. I was stopped by an elderly gentleman who had apparently heard me whistling Beethoven and he wanted to know if I could sing. He gave me some sheet music and I embarrassedly admitted that my sight reading skills were bad. Nonetheless I sang for him.
And then things went wrong. People with clear torques around their necks started to crowd out the people without them. They started chasing me, relentless. They were going to collar me, make me one of them, an alien. Or, at least, under alien control because they were coming today. I ran and fought and tricked. I punched through walls and ceilings trying to get up and out, but the aliens were swarming near me. I asked the numerous cats lazing about for help, and they obliged. They collected, out of the antiques, necklaces that could serve as a fake torque. I had to slow down in my flight to try them on. I finally got one that fit and I made my way back to an alien, because no one had witnessed my deception. But there was a flaw in my plan: my necklace was not clear, but red.
The red necklace scared the other aliens. From what I could gather without revealing to myself, I was someone higher up in the invasion plan than the aliens had been anticipating seeing so soon. Still, sweating every inch of the way, I made my stately, deliberate way to the exit…and then I ran into my mom and I had to rescue her without raising suspicions and I was so, so afraid for her, much more than I feared for myself. I managed to get her to safety, and the aliens finally caught up to me.
They were going to hold me until their leaders arrived and, by then, I was so tired that I couldn’t fight any more. I basically laid down to die. I was so tired and sad because, really, there was nothing I could do anymore. And then I woke up…which I had tried to do earlier without success.
----
Ugh. I'm sick of alien invasions.
~Later
Returning to the Regularly Scheduled Program
I'm doing daily freewrites again. Just a reminder, these tend to be word vomit with terrible grammar, structural, and continuity problems. The following is no exception.
---
I was waiting for Jessica in the Krogers parking lot. It was the middle of a particularly nasty February Wednesday and the wind howled and clawed at the car. I looked at the dashboard clock. Eleven thirty. I’d been sitting in the car listening to the radio for a half an hour now. I sighed and shifted position. Jessica had said she just needed to pick up a new toothbrush and a couple other small ‘personal’ items. I now suspected she was waiting for a refill of her birth control prescription. Jessica didn’t like to talk about that sort of stuff with me, and I was fine with that. I didn’t like talking about it either. But still, if I’d known this quick errand was going to take so long, I would have brought a book.
Maybe I should go in, see if she was stuck in line at the register. No, I told myself. That was a bad idea. Better wait. She didn’t like to be caught in the act of anything personal. Even though we lived together, slept together in the same bed, and, occasionally, had shower sex, Jessica still wasn’t comfortable brushing her teeth in front of me. I can’t imagine what it would be like if she found herself with a prescription bag, confronted by me in the checkout line.
I was trying to respect her, but it was hard. She made it hard. Hell if I knew why. Maybe it would just take some more time. I looked at the clock. Eleven forty. I needed to go in and check on her. I didn’t want to be stuck waiting all morning. I sighed, looking at the dismal parking lot. It was rainy with standing slush on the ground, and the wind was fierce. I checked my windbreaker, zipped it up as far as it would go. I pulled the keys out of the ignition and unbuckled my seatbelt.
The wind heaved against my door as I tried to push it open. I sidled out and the door slammed, missing my fingers by an inch.
“Stupid wind,” I said.
I kicked the car’s tire and locked up. Jessica had insisted we park as far away from the entrance as possible.
“Just think of all those old people,” she had said. “They’re all lame and stuff. And besides, they can’t drive. You don’t really want to be so close to one of them trying to park in the handicap spot, do you?”
And so we were all the way across the vast, flat plane of tar. I snorted. It was ridiculous how all the new stores had such huge parking lots. It was like they expected the entire city to come in all at once. I’d never seen more than a half dozen cars there at any one time. I trudged through the slush and felt cold water seeping into my sneakers. The footing was shitty. The wind threw water into my face, stingingly hard. I skidded every few steps, and two cars tried their best to run me down. The whole parking lot is empty: why in God’s name did they need to come so close to me?
I made it to the front entrance and I stood there, just inside the doors, letting myself drip and enjoying the heaters blasting air onto the top of my head. I shook myself off, to the apparent disgust of an old lady on her way out. Screw you, grandma. You’re parked right next to the door. No wading across the parking lot for you.
And then, I began to look for Jessica. She wasn’t in any of the checkout lines near the entrance. I made my way to the back. Maybe she was at the prescription counter. I grinned as my sneakers squeaked. The noise echoed up to the huge empty ceiling and bounced around. The whole store could hear my every footstep. It would be even better if I’d picked up a shopping cart. I never failed, by random chance, to get the worst-repaired, most rusty, rattling one. But it was dumb to use a cart when I wasn’t going to buy anything.
Jessica wasn’t there. And, in fact, the pharmacy counter was closed. The blinds were drawn, and the lights were off in the pathetic little waiting area, with its square yard of carpet and two folding chairs. So I wandered the aisles, looking for her. Not in the snacks or greeting cards. She wasn’t sniffing shampoos or comparing razors. She wasn’t picking out Tylenol or vitamins. I spent a little time looking at the display of overpriced beer. That wasn’t even a good sale price.
I made a loop of the store. She wasn’t anywhere. And then, I heard her. It was her, definitely, by the photo counter. Oh. Crap. There was no mistaking it. That was her special “I’m having sex and loving it” noise.
I went over to the photo counter. There wasn’t anyone there, but the blinds on the photo booth were quivering. Fuck.
I didn’t wait around. I sped out of the store and crossed the parking lot in record time. I fumbled the keys, fished them out of the slush, and got in. I didn’t want to wait around and talk, so I left her there. I started the car and drove off, leaving her in the store with her…whoever. I didn’t pay much attention on the drive home, and I nearly got sideswiped because I was too busy thinking about Jessica in the cramped little room full of chemicals and the evidence of other peoples’ lives.
---
Okay, so for some reason, I just couldn't get with the first person past tense. Still, it must be an awful thing to find your girlfriend is cheating on you like that...I can't decide if Jessica was cheating with a pharmacy tech or a photo counter person.
~Later
---
I was waiting for Jessica in the Krogers parking lot. It was the middle of a particularly nasty February Wednesday and the wind howled and clawed at the car. I looked at the dashboard clock. Eleven thirty. I’d been sitting in the car listening to the radio for a half an hour now. I sighed and shifted position. Jessica had said she just needed to pick up a new toothbrush and a couple other small ‘personal’ items. I now suspected she was waiting for a refill of her birth control prescription. Jessica didn’t like to talk about that sort of stuff with me, and I was fine with that. I didn’t like talking about it either. But still, if I’d known this quick errand was going to take so long, I would have brought a book.
Maybe I should go in, see if she was stuck in line at the register. No, I told myself. That was a bad idea. Better wait. She didn’t like to be caught in the act of anything personal. Even though we lived together, slept together in the same bed, and, occasionally, had shower sex, Jessica still wasn’t comfortable brushing her teeth in front of me. I can’t imagine what it would be like if she found herself with a prescription bag, confronted by me in the checkout line.
I was trying to respect her, but it was hard. She made it hard. Hell if I knew why. Maybe it would just take some more time. I looked at the clock. Eleven forty. I needed to go in and check on her. I didn’t want to be stuck waiting all morning. I sighed, looking at the dismal parking lot. It was rainy with standing slush on the ground, and the wind was fierce. I checked my windbreaker, zipped it up as far as it would go. I pulled the keys out of the ignition and unbuckled my seatbelt.
The wind heaved against my door as I tried to push it open. I sidled out and the door slammed, missing my fingers by an inch.
“Stupid wind,” I said.
I kicked the car’s tire and locked up. Jessica had insisted we park as far away from the entrance as possible.
“Just think of all those old people,” she had said. “They’re all lame and stuff. And besides, they can’t drive. You don’t really want to be so close to one of them trying to park in the handicap spot, do you?”
And so we were all the way across the vast, flat plane of tar. I snorted. It was ridiculous how all the new stores had such huge parking lots. It was like they expected the entire city to come in all at once. I’d never seen more than a half dozen cars there at any one time. I trudged through the slush and felt cold water seeping into my sneakers. The footing was shitty. The wind threw water into my face, stingingly hard. I skidded every few steps, and two cars tried their best to run me down. The whole parking lot is empty: why in God’s name did they need to come so close to me?
I made it to the front entrance and I stood there, just inside the doors, letting myself drip and enjoying the heaters blasting air onto the top of my head. I shook myself off, to the apparent disgust of an old lady on her way out. Screw you, grandma. You’re parked right next to the door. No wading across the parking lot for you.
And then, I began to look for Jessica. She wasn’t in any of the checkout lines near the entrance. I made my way to the back. Maybe she was at the prescription counter. I grinned as my sneakers squeaked. The noise echoed up to the huge empty ceiling and bounced around. The whole store could hear my every footstep. It would be even better if I’d picked up a shopping cart. I never failed, by random chance, to get the worst-repaired, most rusty, rattling one. But it was dumb to use a cart when I wasn’t going to buy anything.
Jessica wasn’t there. And, in fact, the pharmacy counter was closed. The blinds were drawn, and the lights were off in the pathetic little waiting area, with its square yard of carpet and two folding chairs. So I wandered the aisles, looking for her. Not in the snacks or greeting cards. She wasn’t sniffing shampoos or comparing razors. She wasn’t picking out Tylenol or vitamins. I spent a little time looking at the display of overpriced beer. That wasn’t even a good sale price.
I made a loop of the store. She wasn’t anywhere. And then, I heard her. It was her, definitely, by the photo counter. Oh. Crap. There was no mistaking it. That was her special “I’m having sex and loving it” noise.
I went over to the photo counter. There wasn’t anyone there, but the blinds on the photo booth were quivering. Fuck.
I didn’t wait around. I sped out of the store and crossed the parking lot in record time. I fumbled the keys, fished them out of the slush, and got in. I didn’t want to wait around and talk, so I left her there. I started the car and drove off, leaving her in the store with her…whoever. I didn’t pay much attention on the drive home, and I nearly got sideswiped because I was too busy thinking about Jessica in the cramped little room full of chemicals and the evidence of other peoples’ lives.
---
Okay, so for some reason, I just couldn't get with the first person past tense. Still, it must be an awful thing to find your girlfriend is cheating on you like that...I can't decide if Jessica was cheating with a pharmacy tech or a photo counter person.
~Later
04 January 2010
Pushing Boundaries with Naughtiness
Apologies for the non-writing over this week. I've been stricken ill by some terrible plague and have, honestly, been shivering in a recliner all day every day while watching movies and waiting to die.
To celebrate the possibility that I may be recovering, I give you porn. Gay porn. Well, okay. It's not particularly explicit: I've seen pg-13 movies with naughtier sex. But I'm hoping you, the reader, will find it as evocative as I do. Yes, it is fanfic. But if it makes you feel better, substitute two different man-names. There's really nothing fandom-specific in this story...I just like to think about ninjas getting it on, hahaha.
-----
Sasuke thinks of other things when they do it. Sensational association games. Kakashi’s skin is smooth and he thinks of stones and frogs and water without ripples. Kakashi’s hair is soft and grey, warm mist and kittens and softly broken dawn and his breath is the strange air before a thunderstorm with teeth like lightning closing on his neck, quick strike and on to another area. Sasuke lets Kakashi roll him over on the bed.
He thinks, oddly, of vegetable gardens; freshly turned rows, tomatoes, zucchini, onions in soft dirt. Footprints as his toes flex and his feet arch and dig for purchase in the sheets. Kakashi’s belt buckle jingles, the burr of a zipper and the shush of clothing pushed aside lay train tracks, stretch for miles like scars crisscrossing the pale skin of the land. Horses racing, heartbeat-hooves thunder under hot skies’ intensity.
Kakashi’s eyes and he can’t breathe. Arresting, bright, full of love, for him, full like the ocean. Overflowing. High tide. Seashell nails clutching him, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders as they writhe, grappling, vying to express this thing between them. Lights flash behind his closed eyelids and he wonders if he’s going to cry.
Sasuke sniffs, feeling water gathering at the corner of one eye, tries to focus more--and at the same time less--on Kakashi, what they’re doing together, to each other. He thinks he’ll go mad as his heart hammers in his chest and it might burst because it is full and squeezing in tandem with what Kakashi is doing and he’s just lying there. He should reciprocate, give back, do something. But his hand is shaking as he reaches and presses even closer to Kakashi and he knows that Kakashi knows. It is branded into his palm, radiating, burning into Kakashi’s skin, will forever be written there, an invisible seal of love and longing and things he’ll never say out loud.
Sasuke’s world seizes. Stutter--stop--stutter--stop-stutter-stutterstutterstop. Stop. His hearing rushes out to sea and returns on a wave. He’s bitten his tongue, and all he can say to Kakashi through the copper taste is “drapes” because the connections are gone. He can’t find the words. Kakashi takes it as approval, because he replies in kind: “toaster oven.” They laugh breathlessly, plastered together on the bed. Kakashi offers him a tissue and Sasuke takes it, holds it, wonders what to do with it. Kakashi takes another and wipes Sasuke’s face--he cried after all, then--and Sasuke dabs at the mess on his front. He brushes the hair out of Kakashi’s eyes and draws him close for a kiss, lets Kakashi’s sweat transform his lips into something else. He tingles, pulls back a fraction of an inch, and they breathe the same air. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
-----
Have I disappointed you by posting something old instead of writing something fresh?
I have, for the moment, decided against putting this under some kind of content filter because it is (very much) a fill-in-the-blanks piece of writing. If it were a painting, it would be the sort where you'd be stepping closer and back to try to find the perspective in which it makes the most complete picture. To rephrase: I don't think it's got enough in it to qualify for filtering. Let me know what you think, yeah?
I had both a very easy and a very difficult time writing this. It's very easy to get into the sort of stream-of-consciousness this piece takes on, but it is hard to hone it and reign it in. Even now, months after writing it, I'm still tempted to trim and rephrase pieces of it. Have I overwhelmed the reader with too many random thoughts in between the sexy bits? I hope I have, mostly because I thought all of it was sexy, even the weird, disconnected parts. I have this thing about language...(And for some reason, I couldn't come up with a better euphemism for sex than "doing it." It's just one of those things, I guess, founded in my interpretation of the characters.)
Also, I seem to have a continual struggle with pronouns versus proper names, especially when I've got two men on the page. I try to be specific in who is doing what, but sometimes I fail in juggling all the he- and him- and his-es.
~Later
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. All rights remain with its original creator, Masashi Kishimoto. I make no profit from writing these stories.
To celebrate the possibility that I may be recovering, I give you porn. Gay porn. Well, okay. It's not particularly explicit: I've seen pg-13 movies with naughtier sex. But I'm hoping you, the reader, will find it as evocative as I do. Yes, it is fanfic. But if it makes you feel better, substitute two different man-names. There's really nothing fandom-specific in this story...I just like to think about ninjas getting it on, hahaha.
-----
Sasuke thinks of other things when they do it. Sensational association games. Kakashi’s skin is smooth and he thinks of stones and frogs and water without ripples. Kakashi’s hair is soft and grey, warm mist and kittens and softly broken dawn and his breath is the strange air before a thunderstorm with teeth like lightning closing on his neck, quick strike and on to another area. Sasuke lets Kakashi roll him over on the bed.
He thinks, oddly, of vegetable gardens; freshly turned rows, tomatoes, zucchini, onions in soft dirt. Footprints as his toes flex and his feet arch and dig for purchase in the sheets. Kakashi’s belt buckle jingles, the burr of a zipper and the shush of clothing pushed aside lay train tracks, stretch for miles like scars crisscrossing the pale skin of the land. Horses racing, heartbeat-hooves thunder under hot skies’ intensity.
Kakashi’s eyes and he can’t breathe. Arresting, bright, full of love, for him, full like the ocean. Overflowing. High tide. Seashell nails clutching him, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders as they writhe, grappling, vying to express this thing between them. Lights flash behind his closed eyelids and he wonders if he’s going to cry.
Sasuke sniffs, feeling water gathering at the corner of one eye, tries to focus more--and at the same time less--on Kakashi, what they’re doing together, to each other. He thinks he’ll go mad as his heart hammers in his chest and it might burst because it is full and squeezing in tandem with what Kakashi is doing and he’s just lying there. He should reciprocate, give back, do something. But his hand is shaking as he reaches and presses even closer to Kakashi and he knows that Kakashi knows. It is branded into his palm, radiating, burning into Kakashi’s skin, will forever be written there, an invisible seal of love and longing and things he’ll never say out loud.
Sasuke’s world seizes. Stutter--stop--stutter--stop-stutter-stutterstutterstop. Stop. His hearing rushes out to sea and returns on a wave. He’s bitten his tongue, and all he can say to Kakashi through the copper taste is “drapes” because the connections are gone. He can’t find the words. Kakashi takes it as approval, because he replies in kind: “toaster oven.” They laugh breathlessly, plastered together on the bed. Kakashi offers him a tissue and Sasuke takes it, holds it, wonders what to do with it. Kakashi takes another and wipes Sasuke’s face--he cried after all, then--and Sasuke dabs at the mess on his front. He brushes the hair out of Kakashi’s eyes and draws him close for a kiss, lets Kakashi’s sweat transform his lips into something else. He tingles, pulls back a fraction of an inch, and they breathe the same air. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
-----
Have I disappointed you by posting something old instead of writing something fresh?
I have, for the moment, decided against putting this under some kind of content filter because it is (very much) a fill-in-the-blanks piece of writing. If it were a painting, it would be the sort where you'd be stepping closer and back to try to find the perspective in which it makes the most complete picture. To rephrase: I don't think it's got enough in it to qualify for filtering. Let me know what you think, yeah?
I had both a very easy and a very difficult time writing this. It's very easy to get into the sort of stream-of-consciousness this piece takes on, but it is hard to hone it and reign it in. Even now, months after writing it, I'm still tempted to trim and rephrase pieces of it. Have I overwhelmed the reader with too many random thoughts in between the sexy bits? I hope I have, mostly because I thought all of it was sexy, even the weird, disconnected parts. I have this thing about language...(And for some reason, I couldn't come up with a better euphemism for sex than "doing it." It's just one of those things, I guess, founded in my interpretation of the characters.)
Also, I seem to have a continual struggle with pronouns versus proper names, especially when I've got two men on the page. I try to be specific in who is doing what, but sometimes I fail in juggling all the he- and him- and his-es.
~Later
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. All rights remain with its original creator, Masashi Kishimoto. I make no profit from writing these stories.
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