Comments on [untitled]
Joined: May 08, 2005
Total Topics: 16
Total Comments: 199
Posted 05/04/06 - 2:53 PM:
There are scars in my anus from where a black man raped me. No, that's not true, but I am a chronic liar.
Driving to Pennsylvania I've the suspicion the sun is growing teeth cause every time I look at it the sky begings to waver and little marks appear like a giant evil smile, those ones smiling not of joy but from some secret diabolical plot. I wonder what it's thinking, what it could be accomplishing, why it's so happy with itself; it's actions have been recorded for hundreds of thousands of years, notably from Middle Eastern mathematicians and astrologers but even earlier with the Neandertal, perhaps as far back as Habilis. Every facet of life on Earth is influenced by the sun, from our habits and variety of species to the very structure of our genes. It seems a kid, growing fierce in its resolve, monitoring Earth and its participants in a glass jar, waiting for the right manipulation of events. Is the sun resentful of the other stars in the solar system? When it lowers itself across the horizon every night, behind the mountains and below the prairies behind them, does it linger scornfully towards the friends of the moon? What is it about the other solar systems ours has to be jealous of? Is the evolutionary principle of survival implanted strategically to arise a strong self-empowering and self-righteous species with some form of competitiveness towards products of other solar systems in mind, like some bitter breeder of caged dogs for underground fighting? Is the core of human nature in a nutshell to make the Universe its conquest? I'm only going to Pennsylvania so I can get some paper oregami cranes, so I don't see where I can be of help. My brother lives down there with a little Asian girl who don't say nothing but cooks and cleans and gives him looks like she's gonna kill him one day in his sleep. I told him about it once but he laughed, pulled back his mattress to reveal a Colt .45 automatic, and kissed the barrel while telling me in detail how he's threatened her with it several times and her eyes get big and watery as she apologizes and gives him head. They got a little half-Asian half-White kid running around just out of diapers who, last I seen him, spoke in a muddled half-Asian half-White dialect that sounds sharp and eager, though neither me nor his Pops can understand. We just shrug and laugh hard about it, as if it's an inside joke and the funniest occurrence in the world.
My car is a piece of shit. Actually, I'm not driving but taking the Greyhound. Kentucky is awful. Why do I feel the need to correct myself after lying? Does the truth of me seem inferior to my expectations of what could and should be? Sometimes lying in bed I dangle the truth in front of me like those colorful hanging airplanes suspended above baby cribs that are supposed to make them happy but seem to have the most saddening effect in the world.
There's a black lady across from me with glasses and two plastic bags full of different popcorns and chips and candies that she keeps offering and I politely declines except for one Baby Ruth cause shit it sounded good and then we talked for a bit and she's going back to see her Momma who's dying of some cancer in her leg, and she tells me all about how the doctor's have fucked her over and how her sister's a cheating bitch then eventually she asks me what I do and I say I sell vacuums cause that sounds like the most boring topic ever and her eyes settle on me a moment, as if realizing something, something sad about me, then in her cheerfully boisterous way went back to reading her magazine and a minute later popped her earphones back on. There's what looks to be a nomadic traveler type towards the front. He's too rugged to be a hippy and is wearing an Indian leather jacket with the strings down the side of the arms. Long greasy straight black hair falls just shy of his shoulders and every once in a while he glances back with piercing distrustful black eyes. There's a young college student slumped in her seat with her school's hoodie on and who keeps talking to people on her cell phone. She's cute, brown hair, gazes out the window and chews gum in a slow, reflective manner. All the way in the back are two black kids, brothers I think, playing hand-held video games. Sleep on these things are a blessing.
You can't choose how you die, but you can choose how you will live. That's the fortune I got in my Chinese food yesterday before boarding the bus. I was happy to get it because often they make no sense, are even insulting in their gibberish, like once when it told me Reading is a Pleasure.
With the black lady sleeping I use a book to cover myself masturbating quickly thinking of that cute college girl up there who's ear I can see peaking from a part in her hair and remembering a stop earlier where she arched her back and removed her sweatshirt, revealing perky breasts under a tight white tank top. I picture bending her over a chair and pulling her hair, biting light blue and red frilled panties off her sweet ass then spanking her, and I can hear in my head her cooing and saying yes, yes, yes, oh my! and I'm cursing under my breath and sweating in my fantasy and in real life come a small, enjoyable climax that lets me sleep soon after with that dizzying feeling and the sun felt better than ever on my head leaning against the window.
At the next stop I'm avoiding eye contact with the girl, not that she's looking at me, but I still feel an overwhelming sexual anxiety, mainly based in feelings of guilt and perversion. I fucked a dog once, but felt sorry for it before hand and put it under first, so I didn't get the full effect. No, that's not true. But I did once shit on a Teddy Bear. It didn't even blink. No, that's not true either. In a stilted and forced conversation with the nomad he asks while we're both smoking cigarettes what my profession is and I say a psychologist, which distances us even more and gives him a concerned look like he's picturing the gears turning in my head in some far-off chamber focusing solely on him like them big search lights they got in prison. In truth I've done way too many drugs. When I think of my brain I see a burnt potato, seared black across the top with dry flaky upturned skin peeling, parts from within still smoldering, throbbing and bruised. The remaining parts of my consciousness work slower now, as if in a daze, like someone recovering from being punched in the face by Mike Tyson, or awakening from a poison-induced slumber. Luckily, I brought some coke on the way which I snort occasionally from my pinky finger nail. No that's not true. I quit doing drugs. And in the sobering experience I've realized that I cannot commit to anything, that I'm no longer passionate about anything, that I've neither direction nor purpose, am disillusioned about notions of perfect happiness or justice or even right and wrong, and now just live meagerly, sadly, interrupting no one and being a figure no one knows anything real about. The lies are easier than any truths.
I'm gonna change. I'm gonna repent and start over, starting with I'm gonna fuck this girl for real, starting with me going over there and talking to her.
There's way too much distance between us. By time I got there I'd be terrified. I'd have to casually walk by then surprise myself by striking up conversation and only then would anything natural or spontaneous arise.
Because I'm intimidated by her I picture a fantasy where I'm headed down to Texas, going to meet my smoking wife, a dandy little lady decked out like a cowgirl, whose just sitting in bed waiting legs open and pulsating for my return from up north, where I'd hit a string of casinos, being a card shark and more clever than this college girl will ever be, and am now gonna buy my girl a new house to live in. It will be a grand celebration, and with this in mind, I'm cheerful and smug for the next hundred miles or so. I'll walk past her in a pompous state she'll mistake for condidence, my ignoring her she'll see as being carefree and from a class above her. When I start to think it might work on her I add to the fantasy a kid, a newborn, and this make me older in her eyes, less sexually threatening, like an uncle or some other relative. I want to kill this girl I'm so tired of making stories just to accomodate her. My brain hurts.
The sand outside glows a deep brown, freckled black and white and orange.
(To be Continued ...)
Edited by b.mellow on 05/04/06 - 3:00 PM
Joined: Apr 16, 2005
Location: San Francisco
Total Topics: 425
Total Comments: 4672
Posted 05/04/06 - 3:25 PM:
you have a real knack for stream-of-consciousness writing which i've always enjoyed. rock on.
the narrator's character reminds me a bit of allen, a character played by philip seymour hoffman in the movie 'happiness'. in fact, the overall style seems very much like todd solondz to me. his work emotes a razor-sharp small-town angst which also strikes me as the subtext of this piece. (have you seen any of his films? if you haven't, i recommend checking them out - you would probably enjoy his work)
Edited by libertygrl on 05/04/06 - 4:04 PM
Joined: Aug 17, 2005
Location: Weston-super-Mare, UK
Total Topics: 0
Total Comments: 51
Posted 05/04/06 - 4:55 PM:
I love this humorous stream of thought, on the road, Greyhound-riding style. No, that's not true! I hated it.
I mean - No, that's not true - I really loved it! It's so funny - I read it twice.
No, that's not true, I read it three times.
Are you related to Jack Kerouac by any chance? His love-child, maybe?
Joined: Apr 20, 2005
Total Topics: 44
Total Comments: 474
Posted 05/08/06 - 7:30 AM:
There is a very strong feeling of authenticity to it that I like; that both draws me in and repels me at the same time... Like JuneBug, I read a few parts more than once... Good work...
Joined: May 08, 2005
Total Topics: 16
Total Comments: 199
Posted 05/08/06 - 2:38 PM:
Thanks for your responses everybody.
Lib, I haven't seen any of Solondz' works (nor heard of them actually) but I will check them out. Hoffman has done some good work, especially in 25 Hours with Ed Norton, so I'll have to check that out too. (And small-town angst? Me? Nooo...)
JuneBug, gracias on the compliments! They do say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery; and yeah, I've been reading alot of Kerouac lately, good inspirational stuff.
Rudi, thanks buddy - I'm not sure which are the attracting qualities and which are the repellants, (or if they aren't the same) but I've always liked this effect with what I read, so a compliment I'll take it as!
As everbody could have guessed, I wrote most of this rather spontaneously, when bored/frustrated with other writing I was working on, but I'll see what I can do about further installments -