April 06, 2014

The Story of The Amazing Thing I Put In My Mouth Today

WAIT FOR IT!






I know it’s just going to be a let down. There’s really no way to make this what it needs to be.  I am apologizing in advance.  Words are shit-stains.  This is my underwear.  You are a pair of pants.  There is too much between us that separates.


I WANT TO CRUNCH THE NUMBERS IN YOUR HEADGEAR!

Sorry.  Put wax on the sharp parts of your braces so you don’t cut the inside of your lips.

Back, again:

There I was, just minding my own business in Venice, CA. Minding my own business just like the sun does.  That crazy, private sun who keeps everything on the DL.  (I have a feeling he doesn’t know we all can see him)  I was just strolling along and I’m in a farmer’s market! Look! A farmer’s market!  It’s all around me!  All turbulent with hummus and papusas and woven shopping bags!  There’s fragrance!  I want to spin around with my arms spread out but I refrain.  It’s what I do…refrain.

The farmer’s market is a bulletin board.  Every booth a business card.  Okay.  Okay, fine. I’ll partake.  I’ll become one of these sheep.  I say that. To myself.  As I’m walking and not spinning.  I’m a free-ass bird! I’m a seagull!!!

It all comes down to looking at a booth.  Trying to figure out their wares.  I have an iPhone and five bucks in my hand.  My iPhone is all about the day I’m having.  It was like, LET’S GO OUTSIDE, DOG! So, here it was, with me, in hand, all wide-eyed, you know how they get. 

Stupid iPhone.

It’s all smashed up against my five dollars.  They’re like a loving couple all sexed up against a video game machine.  The booth I’m looking at has a tub full of tubs.  Ice-covered.  Olives. Fucking OLIVES! Why do I want olives?!?!  Oh, I don’t want any olives! That’s right! I am just “perusing wares.” Jesus. H. Christ on a stick giving a handjob! 

ALLASUDDEN!  The old man, the one with all of his teeth, thrusts…yes, THRUSTS….a plastic spoon into my hand, but we’ll get to that later.  Let’s talk about this thrusting.  Man, I haven’t seen anyone thrust like that since I watched 300.  The plastic spoon came at me like one of those 3D arrows in Avatar!  Such a direct and powerful thrust.  It made me reach for it as if instinctively blocking a mortal blow.  That was how I came to be holding the spoon.  There was no other choice but for me to take it from him.  I also suspect there was mind-control involved.

On the spoon was a gooey white substance.  LET YOUR MIND WANDER LIKE MINE DID!  Oh, the plethora of substances that this white gooey stuff could be identified as!!!!  It was a whirlwind!!  My mind did backflips, rode surfboards to Antarctica and also sky-dived off the Eiffel Tower!  My mind watched the LOTR Trilogy.  My mind hitchhiked through Europe trying to imagine what the white goop could be!  I had a spoonful of goop in my hand that a stranger just handed to me AND WHAT WOULD I DO NEXT?!?!?!

I did not want to know what it was.  I did not ask him to repeat whatever gobbledygook phrase he recited when he handed it to me.  I decided right then and thurr I AM GOING TO PUT WHATEVER THIS WHITE GOOEY SHIT IS INTO MY MOUTH AND I WILL BE LIVING ‘ON THE EDGE’.  My iPhone was all like, “Whoah, dude. Slow down!”  but I ignored it and I put the white goo on the spoon into my mouth.

What happened next was metamorphosis.  My tongue shriveled into some sort of brownish-wrinkled turd-shaped cocoon thing.  Inside the turd began a pupae/larvae type of dealio.  There was a lot of turnings and tossings and wrigglings and writhings.  If the feeling had lasted longer than fifty milliseconds I would’ve had to rip my tongue out of my mouth with a pair of pliers.  But then it paused…and there was a still moment then, inside my mouth, a moment a man could cry in…comfortably…without embarrassment….and then my turd-tongue exploded into a huge-dicked butterfly that simultaneously shot its load all over the inside of my mouth.  My teeth turned into daffodils that turned into Virgin Mary’s that turned into stripper tears that turned into a tiny orchestra playing Beethoven’s’ Thirty-Third Symphony which is one of the one’s he wrote for God that God loves the MOST and plays on repeat like, ERRY day while he works out.

That all happened in like one actual second.

My eyes got big and the old man knew he had a keeper. Well, he knew all along.  He knows all the time.  He had an entire army behind him, mouths all stemmed with white plastic spoons.

Dude shoved ANOTHER spoon in my hand!  It slammed up against my iPhone and five dollars.  More white goop.  I shoved it into the orchestra.  They played some more.  So loud my ears started bleeding.  I asked for a napkin but they didn’t hear me because I was actually still savoring the white goop and only asking with my mind.  My shoulders captured all of the blood.  Red epaulettes .

The one with no teeth told me all about the goop.  I was like, ‘you had me at thrust.’  I spun then.  Put my arms wide out and spun spun spun.  Looked up at the sun sun sun.  Who finally noticed my stares and middle-fingered me, so rude.  But then I came back and then I gave money. My five dollars pulled apart from my iPhone and there it went and there it’s gone.

He put the white goop in a brown paper bag and I was like, MOM, I LOVE YOU!  I PROMISE I WILL FILL THE CAR UP BEFORE I COME HOME! I SWEAR I DON’T DO DRUGS!  I HAVENT EVER HAD SEX YET!  I WILL TAKE THE TRASH OUT TOMORROW MORNING!  IS IT COOL IF YOU SING ME TO SLEEP TONIGHT?  IT WAS ME WHO BROKE THE KNOB OFF THE DRYER!  A STITCH IN TIME SAVES NINE!  I’VE NEVER HEARD YOU AND DAD SMACK FIGHT IN THE BASEMENT!  I WILL GROW UP AND NEVER BURDEN YOU ABOUT THAT TIME DAD’S PLUMBER FRIEND TOOK ME INTO HIS VAN!  WHAT’S FOR DINNER TONIGHT?

I took that bag and I walked that bag. I walked a straight line. One of those “bee” ones.  I thrummed straight through all the wayfarers.  I kicked every stroller out of my way. Much to the chagrin of the screaming parents.  I held my white goop like a football.  Like a lover. Like a toddler. Like a paint can.  The white goop and me.  Together.  Walking down the street like Tony Manero.  All the while, God’s favorite symphony still being played in my mouth.

Just know it’s good. Just know it’s like nothing ever before.  This let down.  This happens right now.  I apologized for it up front.  It’s just nothing you can encapsulate in words.  I’ll put it this way, it’s as delicious as I always imagined the Turkish Delight in Narnia would be delicious



April 04, 2014

Coming down is a process.  The atomic cloud shrinks in size, folds in and in and in on itself until it’s pocket-sized, until it can be held in the hand and examined by eyes not as big as during its inception.  At that point you might discover its filthy pores.  Or maybe you look hard for those pores and find none.  Maybe you find it’s as beautiful as its explosion.

And that’s when you start to argue with it.

Decisions, decisions.

I look at things from many angles.  I analyze angles that haven’t been invented yet.  I create facets and worry about them.  That’s my life.  That’s how I torment myself.   Come inside. Sit a spell.  See what it’s like to drive yourself insane.  I’ll serve iced tea.

Men have penises.  Penises get hard and can pound into you.  It’s familiar, welcome and comfortable.  It’s a craving. 

A banana split. 

I am a repeating loop of “I wish.”

I hate so many things about myself.  The likes are only fleeting.  How hard I hold on to the negatives like, “This is what I know.  This is what feels right.”  A favorite pair of pants. Do not bother telling me I am more than I am, it’s a waste of your time.

Do veal calves yearn for anything better?  If finally given a field, would they run free or collapse and look for the tightest corner?

I’m just asking questions. 

Next week I’m going to do what frightens me.  Again.  As much as I’m dreading it, I feel it’s a good and necessary thing.  I am not ready for people to judge me but they will and I’ll have to be fine with that.  I hope my heartbeat complies.  I hope I don’t tremble too badly. 

I will eat an egg at 3:00 pm.

March 30, 2014

Pretty Woman

On Friday I dressed up for a girl.  I wanted to look good for her. A gift.  A little something that I could try to give her.  A way I wanted her to look at me.  A way I wanted to be around her.  Pull her in.

That was on Friday.


On Thursday I hugged her at the airport.  When I had left her last—over a year ago—we were also hugging at an airport.   I stood a stone in the terminal watching her go, people passing by me; a stream. Only after I couldn’t see her anymore did I turn and walk away wondering when I would see her anymore.  That anymore was Thursday.  She lifted me off the ground.  Off the planet.  She lifted me.

Lifts me.




Where did we start?

At the bottom.




She doesn’t realize what a beacon she is for me.  How I would have no forward motion if it weren’t for her.  She is the most beautiful porch light to my lowly moth. I am the blind, prehistoric fish swimming in depths close to bottomless, following her glow on a bulb that hangs in front of my eyes on a stem that connects directly into my being.  I sit in front rows beaming like a crushed schoolgirl.  “That is mine,” I yearn to yell.  “Nobody else’s, only mine.”  From all around I feel an envy.  I smile bigger.

She refuses to SHUTHTEFUCKUP so I punch her in the car.  “Don’t talk that way about the person I love the most!”  I punch and punch her because I can.  There she is.  There she is next to me.  Hittable.  I never want to stop having that small reach between us.


On Friday she buys me dinner.  I eat her mushrooms.  The room we sit in is a cavern of glass walls and low-slung chairs. Our waitress’ name is Veronica.  I order something with oxtail because wtf.  We skip dessert, head back up to the room.

In the room we become an organism.  One we are already but now we give it all of its arms and legs, its gigantic beating heart.  She fights for my shoes and loses.  When I try to cover her face with my open hand an earthquake hits.  “It’s an earthquake,” I say. Her eyes are so open. “This is an earthquake.” I giggle.   It feels so good to be with her right then.  A first, and I’m there.  Together.  With her.


There is a thing between us that calls for closeness.  Or at least it is with me.  She called it ‘cold’ and maybe that was her way of wanting my warm.  Of asking but not asking.  I would’ve done it anyway. I would’ve swept alongside the crawl of time until it settled on both of our shores. She tried to protect her neck and I couldn’t stop smoothing her shirt.  All around us, nothing that mattered more.



Where are we now?

Here.




I dress up for her again on Saturday.  “I never wear these clothes on weekends,” I tell her.  She likes how I smell. 

I take her to be adored and she is.  I love being next to her while it’s happening.  Watching her get what she deserves.  It’s like a sun I don’t want to ever stop shining on her.

Afterwards, I make her LA dreams come true.  It was easy to do.  They are the smallest dreams I’ve ever seen and it’s precious. 

The night becomes the longest night I’ve ever had.  Return of the King is on like we paid for it but we didn’t.  The two of us fold together again.  I break her force field.  Then we break each other’s.  There is a breath in the room that had been holding since we got there and it sits in the corner all night, waiting for release.  There are no limits on softness. 


We are mirrors for each other.  The mirrors are both whole and shattered.  We see each other through the glass that is unblemished, the reflection true.  We see ourselves only in the starburst splintered fragments of the broken glass. Each of us wants the other to see what they see; to pull them in front of the mirror that is whole and shout, “THIS is you! Not that. This!”

I have a pink thumbnail.




Who are we with?

The whole team.




On Sunday there is no dressing up.  She has to go.  The morning day is perfection and the drive to the airport too quick. 

“Nobody will understand what this is because we don’t understand what this is.” 

Surfbordt.


  

March 25, 2014

Two Things

First thing:

I have always loved Scott McClanahan's work.  I wrote about his Hill William over at HTML Giant.



Second Thing:







I am going to be reading at this amazing thing on April 10th.  I am already regretting it.  Please, if you go, don't take any pictures of me or I will put a pox upon you and your family.

PLEASE DON'T ATTEND!!

Thank you!!






March 22, 2014

A Letter to a Friend

There is a young man named Casey Hannan. He is stupid. Stupid Casey Hannan. 

The last time I touched Casey Hannan was in February or March of 2013.  I believe it was in a crowded Boston hotel lobby. I believe I was crying and telling him to ‘just go.’  It was very ‘movie scene.’  But it was more real than anything I’ve felt in real life.

While I haven’t seen or touched Casey Hannan in over a year, I’ve managed to see his penis hundreds of times.  Oh, this isn’t any sort of nefarious perverted activity.  It’s just a tumblr click away.  Anyone can do it. You don’t know how awkward it is seeing your good friend’s penis for the first or second time.  But by the fourth or 29th or 33rd it’s as natural as avoiding staring at that weird mole on their neck but still looking anyway.

The last time I spoke with Casey Hannan was around 10 am on September 10th 2013.  I remember that because I was in an airport waiting to fly up to SF to surprise my mom on her 70th birthday.  I sort of feel shame that we haven’t spoken since then but I still feel completely confident that lack hasn’t eroded our feelings toward each other. Such is the life of internet relationships.  They are cultivated in a sparser way but despite that the roots have grown deep and hold fast.  Usually, anyway. 

I hope so, anyway.

I am telling you all of this because I am about to write this blog post to him like a letter.  I just wanted the audience to have some background.

“The audience” haha.

Okay, here is the part where I write the letter:

Hi Casey.  My mom is visiting. She hasn’t been at my house for many years. I don’t even know how many years and neither does she or anyone else for that matter.  My house is small but she had me take her on ‘the tour’ anyway.  It lasted about 7 minutes but she made “mm hmm” type noised along the way and said everything looked nice.  I even showed her your penis pillow and she seemed impressed. 

Because she has bad hips she made a point of evaluating my showers to see which was more accessible.  She tried stepping into both and decided on the shower that is never used and I didn’t clean for her arrival and I told her as much.  She said she didn’t care. She just hoped she wouldn’t fall down and need to yell for me to help her naked, wet body off the floor of the bathroom and I said I hoped not too.

The first thing my mom did when she got here was call her brother. He’s my only uncle.  My mom doesn’t know how to put her iphone on speaker and was reluctant for me to teach her so we sat with our heads together like we were crank calling a foxy boy but without any giggling.  My uncle had gone to the doctor that day for a verdict and, as it turn out, the verdict was probably the worst sort of verdict one can get in life.  It was an anticipated verdict but once those types of things are said out loud, it’s sort of like a door that had been slightly open for a long time is clicked shut.  It’s the noise that click makes.  A click of a heavy lock, new and ready to hold things closed forever.

My mom asked my uncle if he’d like to talk to me.  I wanted to talk to him but was like, what do I say?  I didn’t have to worry because he just started asking me things about my life.  Things you talk about on any dumb phone call.  But as those things were run out of and the call dwindled I said, as I always say to him, ‘you are the best uncle I’ve ever had’ and he said, as he always does, ‘im your only uncle’ and that meant ‘I love you’ and then we said goodbye. 

My mom came down for a ‘family thing’.  That family thing is later today.  I’m looking forward to it.  It should be nice.  Right now it’s early in the morning and everyone that is using my house as a hotel are still asleep. I’m typing in the quiet with my coffee.  I hope nobody wakes up and makes me stop writing this.
As I said, my house is small and the amount of bedding is limited and I ran out of pillows.  So I am sleeping with a small throw blanket as a wadded up pillow. That ‘pillow’ is laying across my feet now and they are very warm.

Roxane is coming to LA next week and I can’t even tell you how happy this makes me feel but I know I don’t have to tell you because you already know.

I miss you and Josh.  I’m sorry im not better at keeping in touch.  The guilt of that has me doing things like this. 

Feeble gestures. 

I dream about the day I can show up on your porch and sleep with a wadded up blanket for a pillow on your couch and eat your pies—even the weird ones— and hang out with you all day while you point out the men in your neighborhood you write about sometimes.    We’ll sit in that silence we sometimes sit in, that not-at-all-uncomfortable silence we have between us. I’ll stare at your long, thin fingers like I sometimes do…your hands…and I’ll think to myself…like I sometimes do…”I know what Casey Hannan’s penis looks like.” And I’ll smile all big and you’ll look over and ask, “What?” and I’ll smile even bigger and say, “Nothing.”  Then Josh will come home and we’ll hug tackle him in the front yard and wrestle him to the ground and shove wadded up fistfuls of grass into his mouth until he chokes to death.

Just kidding about that last part.

Love,

me

March 20, 2014

Cool Interview

with Simon Jacobs about Safety Pin Review and he gives me a nice shout out. 

Here is my SPR piece if you want to spend 3 seconds reading something.

March 17, 2014

GIRLS IN WHITE DRESSES

Juliet Escoria asked me to be a part of an awesome little project called, "Girls In White Dresses."

So many amazing female writers hanging out alongside me.  So honored.


March 08, 2014

Today I Am A Summer Field


Today I am a summer field.  Put yourself inside me.  Watch what I do when the wind blows.  Thread through the stems that stream me.  Feel my skin from the sun.  Put your face against mine.  Let them melt-stick together.  Let them become one giant face.  A four-eyed, two-mouthed, mass of wrong.  An outside reflecting my in but at least that means we’re forever together.

In the summer field of me we can entwine; our freak-face head atop our bodies now forced to know one another as their own.  The warm dirt dusting our forms in blessing.



The field spreads wide, singing of childhood.  That’s why it is me.  That’s why I want you there.  You are the hand dropped down for me to hold.  To hold on to.

Oh, to be lifted apart from this field!



When we are together in the summer field, you will be bigger than me.  It’s your duty.  It’s my prayer. For once, a blockade comes for me.  Your mass of stone surrounding me as arms of a protective father might. 

Should.

There are those that don’t.  There are father’s arms that carry you through the corn.  So much corn that for a while you think the flapping of their leaves against your feet and face is a mass of green birds angry with your intrusion. When the corn finally ends and the birds abate there is the peace of a summer field.  It’s grasses as high as the corn.  Its still settles on you like baby’s breath. 

The father’s arms set you down because the father’s mouth tells you about the secrets you will find in this field.  Together.  You don’t know anything yet so you ask him where they are and he says, “We need to walk until we can’t see the corn anymore.  That’s where we will find them.”  

It’s a short walk, but you find the secrets.  A treasure trove.  And when you are carried back through the corn the birds’ wings are nothing at all and your father is humming a melody you will never be able to forget.

But in this summer field I have you.  And your arms have only carried me out of the corn.  And your mouth has never told promises of finding secrets. And when they command, “Show me on the doll where he touched you,” you will take that doll, you will touch that doll everywhere he did not.  With that action, forecasting a new weather. 

You will hand me the doll; a gift.  The chaste and unspoiled doll.  We will bury it in me. The soil will accept it and my field will sing a different childhood song.  A song of a new summer field, one that does not shelter what happens beneath its tall grasses, one that does not have mixed liquids soaked into its soil, one that releases instead of takes.  And one day, because of you, the father’s melody will finally be forgotten; in its place, this new song.