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MOTION THOUGHTS
Tuesday, February 27, 2007I Played NiceWill I let this sickness eat me alive? Everyone fucking like Sodom and Gomorrah on couches, on the floor, and me wondering where the fuck to go or who to fuck, since many orifices remained unfilled. Spinning on gyroscope, I settled my gaze finally on some tight little Asian girl and approached to enter. But she shoved me back, an Indian man occupying her rectum.How did it all begin? I thought crimson and pink flesh thoughts and everything turned to sin quick as lightning brightening the room with sexual enticements. They didn't even wait for me this time and everyone turned on each other like starving wolves on sheep, but all were predator and prey simultaneously, instantaneously, eyes wide, mouths gaping for the heavenly connections of that aroused state. It seemed like a free-for-all. Then why did everyone stop and light up cigarettes when I tried to join in? One second breast and tongues and the rapid exchange of all bodily fluids and then, as I tried to kiss her, simply kiss her, a great inhalation of smoke from all sides. I was far too tired for this bullshit and so lied down. Why did everyone leave the room when it looked like I had passed out? All I could hear was the insidious repetition of techno beats, spanking and the flicker of lighters burning so-and-so's nipples I assumed. Why did I lie there praying for sleep while fantastic unknown things happened just feet away? Cadet Steve, February 13 Labels: sex Sunday, February 25, 2007Never Dog-ear a DiaryI remember groggily my mother telling me stories of when I'd speak to her in my sleep.She'd ask me unfair questions while I lay half catatonic on my dinosaur sheets. She'd get all the right answers and kiss me on my forehead and retire to her bedroom. After I realized that I wasn't dreaming I started sleeping on my stomach and hiding my diary. Sometime later I remember finding it's pages dog-eared. I carried it with me the whole summer while I mowed lawns and saved up for a purse. My purse over my shoulder and my prized secrets batting at my hip. I came across a garage sale that promised freedom and solitude. We lived in a 9o year old house back then and so the locks were old. For 50 cents I purchased privacy. My mother screamed about it being a fire hazard- but I knew that old skeleton key scared the shit out of her. Not only could I lock my bedroom door and closet- but I could lock any door in the house, from the inside or the out side. She called the police when I locked her in her bedroom- I told them she needed a nap. I surrendered my key and was grounded from cartoons. I got my first kiss and my first job all in the same year, I was hot shit. I asked my mother if I could barrow her pearls for my date, she chortled and fussed over me telling me I looked like a lady. I was a lady with a secret. I discovered my key in her jewelry box, forgotten at the bottom amidst the gaudy costume jewelry. I slipped it in my pocket gingerly and whispered "I missed you." Later that year I discovered sex and the basement window, the key made a glorious comeback and my diary was a pure unadulterated dime store trash novel. Mother began to worry as most mothers do. I embellished chapters about lesbian occult dabbling and peddled paragraphs of advances with married men in the congregation, I'd write several different versions of evenings in the volumes of diaries I'd amassed just to throw her off. I live alone now in a studio, where the skeleton key is useless- I gave it to my boyfriend and told him it was full of secrets. My new dairy lays out in the open and in 3 rooms at once. Mother found my old diaries and asks me if I've found god. I tell her I haven't really been searching- I ask her if she's found a husband and she breaks down and cries. She 's afraid to die alone. I figured the two were equally relevant, but I hate to see her cry. I tell her that it's more important that she finds herself first. She says she barely recognizes me anymore. I tell her that I'm her daughter and she should never dog-ear pages. Friday, February 23, 2007Tom cracked the seeds in his mouth, swallowing bits of broken corn. It disgusted me, that sound and the violent jaw movement. It disgusted me more than the fact that he wanted to watch me fuck his wife. Will there be cameras? I'd asked. I don't think so, she'd replied. Let me sleep on it, ok?Now I sat with a belly full of wine staring at a movie that none of us were really watching. The apartment was a nice two-story loft set up, with en vogue furniture and Andy Warhol prints on the walls. Beth was majoring in art at the local university, and I guess Tom let her design the place with his checkbook in mind. For such a nice place, stocked with rack after rack of wine, it pissed me off that they hadn't offered me anything to eat other than popcorn. I hadn't eaten in at least a day and a half, and I hated popcorn. But what the hell, down the hatch. Every now and again they would look at each other curiously and then look at me --I felt their gazes and quickly took a sip from my wine glass, which they were constantly refilling. Using got me here, I thought. So why shouldn't using get me out of here? Or did I really want out? Usually, I let the booze make my decisions for me. It was easier that way. Why'd you take your pants off in church? one might ask. And I could simply reply, I was drunk. My bad. Drinking didn't plant the seed, never did, but it always helped move things forward. I've done strange things sober too, don't get me wrong. I have courage that doesn't come from a bottle. Plus, I'm no stranger to kinky shit. I once got involved with one of those club kids. A seventeen year old girl who thought she should still dress like a thirteen year old. She had the candy necklaces and the pink pacifier. She spoke of the universe in terms of rave energy, and told me I wasn't out there enough for her that I should live a Joe Smith life, nine-to-five it while she explored the cosmos, listening to the same techno beats over and over again, watching pretty colors swirl around. I'll admit I've done some drugs in my short life thus far, but some people just... the point is, she wanted to have a threesome this one night, or morning, I think it was four or five, but she kept wigging out because she was doing so many whippets. I started touching on her and nibbling her neck and then all the sudden she pushed me away, sat up and said, I need a cigarette. What a crazy bitch. So we stopped, sort of sat around for a while, and then she starts licking the other girls breast and I'm thinking, Alright, let's try this again! But what does she do next? She sets the cherry of her cigarette right on this girl's poor little nipple. They start going back and forth, just loving it. I got my things and got the fuck, that's what I did. Walked back to my parent's house. All this thinking about kinky shit reminded me of a story I'd heard. "So, this friend of a friend had this drinking problem," I started. "We're not your psychiatrist. You can be honest with us," said Beth. "No, no, you misunderstand. This isn't about the drinking itself. Anyway, this guy is drinking and he's dating this girl with a prosthetic eye. One of those fleshy ones. So one night, she's passed out and he's still horny, and he takes out the eye and he goes to town." "Holy shit," said Tom. "He skull fucked the bitch!" he laughed brutally. Beth sat silently in disgust. And I suppose I levitated somewhere in between them. It was funny, in a cartoonish way, but to think about that girl... an actual human being... "What was the point of that story, Jamison?" asked Beth in a serious tone. I had to think it over for a moment, but couldn't really come to any justification. I wasn't going to tell her about this x-happy psycho, and it wasn't like we were watching hardcore porn--the movie was a love story between a wounded fighter pilot and a traveling gypsy, which Beth of course had picked out. Walking through the movie rental store seemed to me a bit obvious, the three of us, but I'd been smoking before we got together that evening and I'm sure that colored everything nervously--flickering between desire and anxiety. "I guess I just thought of it is all," I said. They were both older than me, by five years for her and damn near ten for him. When I met Beth she said I looked sixteen. I was buying a pack of cigarettes ahead of her in line and it was enough to make the cashier check my ID twice. I thought she was a real bitch and then I looked back at her. She smiled and brushed her hair back with delicate fingers, one of which held a wedding band. A few weeks later she applied where I worked, it being a small town, and we talked and talked, learning that I was legal but that she was married. What luck! I thought then in despair. Sitting on that couch I didn't know what to think. "That's a pretty strange thing to just think, especially considering the situation," said Beth. "And what is the situation?" I asked. "You tell us," she replied. "I'm getting some more wine," I said. "That's the situation." If I got drunk enough, I thought, I might just find my way through this. Don't talk to women when you're high and horny; it can only lead to trouble. The damnedest thing was I really did want to fuck her, quite wildly so, but there remained that obstacle: her husband watching from his armrest vantage point. How would I feel in the act? Hell, how would I feel afterward? Also, the thought that this might be some sort of a trap crossed my mind. I hear that they commute sentences if a husband walks in on his wife with another man and then shoots the perpetrators. Did he want to murder his wife? Was I some sort of a pawn? I needed to quit smoking weed. Had I a trusting family member who didn't view me as a complete disgrace and failure, I would have picked up the phone and asked for advice. The closest thing I had to a caring mother since mine passed away was my high school teacher Cynthia, who had let me feel her up one afternoon after class and still sent me letters asking how I was holding up. We had gone into her Buick and driven to the Wal-Mart parking lot and fooled around in the backseat. She couldn't take me to her place since she was living with a married man--he was legally separated, don't judge!--and I was still living with my parents, so Wal-Mart it was. I think I was fifteen, though I don't really remember those times too well. "So Beth tells me you're at the college. What are you studying up there?" asked Tom in half-interest. I hadn't even graduated from high school yet and probably wasn't going to. "I really like English," I said. Since I'd moved out on my own I hadn't gone to class at all and spent all my money in the best way possible--maintaining a constant state of altered reality. I couldn't remember the title of the last book I'd read. My mind always jumped around too much for all that. But then it came to me: "I've been reading As I Lay Dying." "Faulkner. I'm impressed. What do you think of it so far?" he asked. "I like what he does with Conscience. Of the characters," I fumbled, trying to remember what Cynthia said before we were in the back of her Buick all the time and I could only manage to stare at her breasts during class. "Stream-of-Consciousness was most innovative for his time. If you like that try Sanctuary. That book has one of my favorite scenes in all of literature." Then he switched gears to a more business like tone. "So is that your major then? What are you planning to do with it when you get out into the real world?" I had to think fast. What came to mind was the truth, and it had gotten me out of many awkward corners. "I'm so drunk!" I played it up, waving my glass around. Only I wasn't that drunk, and then she put her hand on my thigh and it looked like things were about to get rolling. I sobered up fast. "Let me freshen up real quick," I said. They smiled at each other and I went to the bathroom. There I frantically called Cynthia. "Jamison? What's the matter?" she asked. "I need to talk. It's a sex thing." "I told you, I can't talk to you like that anymore. There's a lot of pressure out there about us, and Harold and I are getting married and..." "I didn't call to talk dirty, Cynthia. I'm in a bit of a predicament. I need your advice." I told her about everything. "Is she worth it?" she asked. "I don't know. I was high when she called," I said. "You were high when we first, you know." There was a silence, unbearable. "Was I worth it?" she asked, quieter. "You know you were worth it," I said. "Am I a bad person? Are we bad people for everything?" FUCK! I thought. Not now, please just be a steady rock right now. How was it that adults could be so insecure, more insecure than even me at times? A knock came at the door. "Who are you talking to?" asked Beth. "My, my mother just called. Give me a minute," I said. That shut her up. "Did you just say I was your dead mother?" asked Cynthia. "Is that a problem?" I asked. "If you don't have a problem with it then I guess I shouldn't either. You're something else you know, Jamison. You have such a mind, such a wonderful soul too, and you just don't know how to apply it all. You get into these situations." "Ok Mom," I replied. "Is she still there?" Cynthia asked. "Uh-huh," I lied. "Do what you feel is right," she said. "What's right?" I asked, confused. "What the hell's that supposed to mean? Is that some sort of a joke?" "You're so tough, and yet so terribly vulnerable. I wish I could, I don't know, just stuff you inside me and keep you safe from the rest of the world." "I'm hanging up now," I said and closed my phone. In fourth grade we learned about Zeus. I'm sure the other kids learned about a whole lot of other shit too, but I learned about Zeus. When he saw a pretty girl he went and took her, struck down her husband with a lightning bolt or something. I liked that. At recess I went and kissed all the girls on the playground, some of them I had to hold down, and no one did a thing. I don't think they knew what to do. So the principal sat me down for a long talk, and then they sent me out to one of those child psychologists, who talked to me about all my sexual urges. I swore he was going to drop drawers and grab me any minute, but some people don't meet our expectations. So I got out easy, just a few pointless sessions and then I stopped kissing girls for a good long while. The point here is that I learned about Zeus, and so I did then what I occasionally do, and I prayed to him, right there in that bathroom. "Zeus," I prayed. "What would you do?" But of course I knew what he would do. He'd go in and knock out Tom and have his way with Tom's pretty little wifey. Considering Tom was a military type, I didn't see this as the best possible solution. If only I was a god. O Humanity, what a terrible joke! Maybe I could get some money out of this thing. I knew that wasn't part of the deal, but I could tell him that he could take pictures if he just gave me some money. Where would they end up though? That was the big question. Somehow, in all that time spent in the bathroom I had overlooked my greatest asset in that house. I consulted the medicine cabinet: Aspirin, Benadril, Viagra. No thank you, I thought. And then I found the money: Percocet. I whipped out my wallet, pulling out a dollar and my license. I crushed up a few pills, and by a few I mean four, and put them in equal amounts up my nostrils. I left one pill in the bottle. I wasn't complete asshole. I staggered then out of the bathroom, found Beth, and started groping her crotch. "Alright," said her husband. And then a moment later: "Whoa now, tiger, slow down." I was clawing at her jeans. The light looked like something out of Monet and everyone seemed to be talking inside my head. Her sexuality pushed down on me like bricks as she tongued deep into my mouth. "I'm going to," I started but collapsed mid-thought. My head hit table and I didn't get up for what seemed like just a second. Oh God, oh God, Tom! Tom, what do we do? Dammit, I told you this was a bad idea. No, no, he won't be alright, Tom. Check the medicine cabinet, I thought I heard him snorting. Fucking drug addict. I knew it! Voices throbbing like a muscle. Clattering, then weightlessness. All of it at once, yet none of it happening at all, like a dream, like clips from a movie, like our weak memories of childhood--how we can never piece together that un-chronological existence before school time regiment. Then nothing, a silence like death. But only for a moment. Lights. Drink this. No more drink. We'll put a tube down your throat if you don't drink this. Down the hatch. Black film coating my insides, bright, bright swirling above. Their apartment sure was fucked up. Were they filming with all these lights? Was I having sex? I searched for my penis, couldn't find it. Black silence again. "Excuse me, nurse?" I asked when I came to. "How did I get here?" "A taxi brought you. Do you remember where you were last night?" she asked. "Not a clue," I lied. I guess I hadn't gotten laid after all that night. "They had to pump your stomach, you know," she said, moving a little closer. "What did they find?" "More like what didn't they find?" she said. "You're cute, come here," I said. "You are a sick little duck, aren't you, hun?" She seemed concerned, genuinely concerned. I hadn't seen a look like that in a good long while. Seeing her like that just made me want to get high. She came and sat down on the edge of the bed, patting the sheets down. "Now listen. I think you'd better start being honest with yourself if you ever plan on making anything of yourself. At some point in your life, hopefully, you'll have what others of us have had. That is, a moment of clarity. When you came in you kept asking what we had done with the place. Said it looked different than last time. Where were you?" Silence. "You're obviously not ready, but someday, maybe tomorrow, maybe ten years from now, you'll go to pick up whatever it is you're picking up and something inside of you will change. Just like that. This is not your first time here is it?" I shook my head. "If you keep on like you're keeping on it won't be your last. And this is actually not so bad a place to end up after a night like yours must have been. You're lucky that whoever put you in that taxi did. You could be dead. If you go back out there and don't think things over, you will be dead. Maybe tomorrow, maybe ten years from now." "We all die some day," I interrupted. "But wouldn't you rather die with dignity? Wouldn't you rather die beside someone you love dearly and have spent a whole life with than on the floor of some strange girl's dorm room?" "She wasn't a stranger," I argued. "Did you love her dearly or her you?" she asked. It was like a needle that question. "Just promise me that when you get out of here you'll think it over. I'm not saying quit using or drinking or anything. I'm not in the position to tell you what to do. Just think. Maybe you haven't lost enough yet. I don't know. There's a poem I'd like to share with you though." I rolled my eyes. "I'll just share a few lines: 'I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or/ next-to-last, of three loved houses went./ The art of losing isn't hard to master... Even losing you....'" she trailed off. "I even lost my fucking dog," she laughed. "Came home one night and crashed the car into the fence. Didn't even notice until the next morning. Oh what a morning. The last thing to go. My lovely Jessabelle. You're only eighteen though, right. Got a lot more to lose. You don't have to listen to a cynic like me right?" With that she left. How could a cute girl like that be such a fucking psycho? I thought. That afternoon I walked home from the hospital, another hefty bill under my arm, and a stabbing pain in my head. The walk wasn't long, only about a mile, and when I got there Troy was loading a bowl on my coffee table. "You want a beer?" he asked. "Nah, I'm laying off that shit for a while." I replied. I reached over and took the pipe. I stopped for a moment, looking down at the swirls in the glass, how they seemed to consume each other in those chaotic hues. "Something wrong?" he asked. "Of course not." I took a hit. something story length almost from Cadet Steve Tuesday, February 13, 2007Digital Hamn!   In high school, I fronted Hamn!, a very silly and very chaotic punk band. I made "digital" versions of some Hamn! songs after my first year of college under the name Deli Beats and here's some of the "best" tracks. If you are absolutely insane and want a free copy of the Hamn!/Digital Hamn! cd, email me (delibeats@gmail.com) and we'll figure something out. Seventh Vegan Protest Song Hats Off To Strap-Ons It's A Nice Day Sex With Shotguns Sunday, January 28, 2007A Path of Good IntentionsThe Actor and Actress lusted after each other for pretend. And then they lusted after each other for real, running circles in my mind as I sat on my hands and sounded my frustration with lips on vibrato. There was no camera rolling. They were brother and sister, for pretend. But aren't we all? Jesus spoke to me in a dream: I will burn the weeds with the chaff, and you my brother are more chaff than crop. Quit smoking weed, and live your life. That's all he said, then he turned into a lawn chair and I had a nice relaxing evening watching the stars plummet to earth. The Actor was there, but not the Actress, and we shared a cigar made of un-Canonized papyrus--the apocalypse of Peter I believe, or maybe the youth of Jesus where he killed a boy with his almighty powers. Either way, the Actress was not there, and this saddened me, so we smoked a cigar and talked about writing, the art of, which I know nothing of, since my best stuff writes itself in my dreams and leaves me a dull life in the morning.Anyway, while they were lusting after each other, I was searching for a camera to take things down, or a pen, at least a pen, so that I might remember my place in society, which is as a set of training wheels I never got rid of or used to. I took a few anxiety pills and a soft pink lithium, and felt better about the situation, though there was nothing I could really do. When I approached the lusting I received strange glares, and yet when I stood far off they seemed to beckon me with their subliminal doublespeak. I lost the English language, or they did, and reverted to babbling. Finally, someone brought me water and I was satisfied. But this is not about "water" or "lust" but about "Jesus," if we can all keep these nouns straight for a minute (though they seem to elide), who spoke to me then not as a lawn chair, since I was awake, or mostly awake for that matter, but as a golden chain around my neck, pulling my head down in reverence. I had not smoked marijuana in four days, and so when he spoke I listened. He said, Do it. Previously I had been contemplating dumping the water all over the two lovers and drinking it off of their bodies. It had come to me from a comment an ex-girlfriend had once made. While searching for my name on the internet she had found a photographer who specialized in nude models, only that he poured milk on their bodies as the photos were taken. This brought me a smile, because I am lactose intolerant, which says something about my embarrassment over sex in general in a Freudian kind of way. Though every Psychiatrist I've gone to has disregarded Freud as a nut job, I believe there is more we can learn from him than from the current overly medicine oriented researchers. If they believe they can prove behavior through a mouse it is because they are acting like mice, constantly searching for the way to the consolatory cheese. I do not eat cheese, as I have stated, but at that moment I wished that it were milk I could pour on them instead of plain water. From the urging of my Lord and Savior I moved forward and poured the water on lust, whose fire quickly fizzled, and the Actor and Actress removed themselves from the scene. Without subjects in my scene I took off my golden representation of Jesus and dangled it across my bottles of antidepressants and mood-stabilizers and photographed it with a camera I found on my back. I remarked on how I should have found the camera earlier, but life had been in a daze. John Lennon on a wall and the lyrics to "Imagine," left me wondering how I would get anything accomplished while in this bleak sobriety? I needed no signs, yet without them how would my actions amount to anything? I blocked out my childhood at an early age and did not realize it until much later, watching Edward Scissor Hands with an old friend and her dog. The television mocked my artistic mindset, something I save only for boredom now. Both the television and my artistic mindset I mean. I emptied my bottles onto the floor, it was a hardwood floor, and photographed them in their somber-still state, and, realizing that I did not truly know where I was, I tried to frame the whole scene in front of me. There were the hard wood floors, but seemingly no walls besides a stage-like wall in the very middle, with a doorway in the middle, and if there were other walls they were of a perfect whiteness so that they seemed to stretch out into eternity. Very much it was like an empty mind waiting to be filled. I missed my Actor and Actress, both of whom had left through the stage wall, and I missed my Jesus, who no longer spoke since there was no more action for me to do. Above spun a fan, counting off seconds with each turn. No clocks. No windows. No time. Much like a casino. I hated the spinning, like I hated conversation with a dull person, or sex with an unattractive person for that matter, for its monotony. Simple circles which lead to no end, at least not quickly, and I was reminded of Eliot, reciting to my self the beginning of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," just the first stanza, for that's all I really ever cared for. I flung my pill bottles at the uninteresting, unattractive and otherwise unlovable fan, but they did nothing. So then I flung my Jesus. And a voice rang out, and it said loudly as if from a Wal-Mart overhead speaker--and then I saw the florescent lights and determined I had arrived to hell--Why do you discard me at this your most desperate moment? Do you not realize the world has left you completely? That not even may you watch it still? Children giggle over your enlightened failure, and you will never see them again. And you discard your last hope? The fan stopped then, and it seemed time stopped then. I am not enlightened at all am? I thought, noting my lack of effort, my utter apathy in all situations since the beginning of time. And just as I thought it the lights dimmed to a nothingness. The voice this time was less powerful, but much darker. It was a defeated voice, a voice that asked for punishment. It became smaller and smaller and then darker and darker. It grew and shrieked when it spoke, as if utterly terrified. It was my voice. I will not tell you what it said, for it would haunt you every night of your life as it haunts me every moment of this black existence. Labels: dreams, religion, sex, water Thursday, December 14, 2006CoffeePhilip awoke with a purpose: he would be the best salesman FAO Swartz had ever seen! He had only held the job thus far for a week and a half, but he knew that selling a product to the children of rich managers' and executives' wives would springboard him to the heights of ladders he had only admired from afar. To him there existed no ceilings, only up and up. But first things first, he would perform his sacred routine: left sock, right sock, left shoe, right shoe, seven minutes in the bathroom. There was no need to take a shower, not in the morning. To only take one shower a day meant either going to bed with wet hair or dirtying the bed with a day's squalor. He chose wet hair, because at least it was clean wet hair.At the door of the coffee shop everything was still flowing smoothly, but upon entering he came face to face with a brown great dane standing wobbly on hind legs and wearing a pinstripe suit. In one paw he held a briefcase down by his thigh, and in the other a cell phone he was actively searching through. Of course, thought Philip, this must be a dream. "Well, might as well get in line," he concluded. He shoved past the great dane, and took his place behind a poodle. She wore a leopard-print dress and flirted obnoxiously with the basset hound in front of her, making every bit of her sex life uncomfortably public. No one seemed to mind however. What would have been icy stares normally were in this dog-run world warm smiling gazes. "Oh to be her age again," he thought he heard an elderly shitsu who chain-smoked near the back of the shop. All kinds of dogs, smiling to each other, laughing and tossing their purses their hats their files all around and barking with merriment. He didn't know what to do, where to turn from all this excitement. Finally he fixed his eyes on the menu, but the words at first were all misspelled, all jumbled and incoherent, and then they cleared up instantly. "Espresso, Americano, Cafe con Leche," he read aloud, one after another, and began to feel normal again. Even the noise had quieted, for now when he turned back to them the dogs were sitting sedately in caps and bonnets, skirts and corduroys. Now it was his time to order. "I'll have an Americano with an extra shot of espresso," he said to the cute greyhound behind the counter. Her slender neck turned back to the menu, as if to verify, then turned back to Philip. "We don't serve coffee here, I'm sorry." "What are you talking about? I come in here every morning!" he exclaimed, then seeing the menus distorted and spinning like a fan he checked himself and began again. "What then do you serve?" "Water," she replied flatly. "Fine, I'll have a water," he decided in quiet frustration. "Oh, we don't serve the water up here, there's a fountain in the back." "If you don't serve anything up here, then what did I stand in line for!" "I guess only you know that, sir." Too drained to reply he walked toward the back. Three young stone angels stood in the middle of the fountain, pouring water from miniature buckets. Feeling defeated, Philip bent down onto his hands and knees and moved to lick from the fountain, but he felt himself pulled back from the water then by a firm paw. It was the great dane from earlier, holding a teacup in his other outstretched paw. Philip nodded, taking the cup and dipping it in the water. "Why are you dressed up like that? Why a tie and everything?" he asked the great dane. "Why are you?" came the reply. They both shrugged their shoulders and sipped from their tea cups. "Does it taste funny to you?" he asked Philip. After reflecting he took another sip and nodded, affirming the suspicion. "That's because it's a kind of weak tea that makes the world whirl around you." "Dammit," muttered Philip, who had been gazing at the angels, watching them turn softer and softer, filling with pinks and tans until they came to look like ripe peaches, but now the picture took on too fierce of a change and the water twirled away the stone until everything mixed and streaked. Inside was not much better; the spinning did not take everything over, though the ceiling shook in waves and the counter shifted back and forth like a rocking ship in a terrible storm. What stuck him though was the massive canine orgy that took place there before him. Boxer and pointer, terrier and pincher, it mattered not, what mattered only was the love of all for all. They all howled and sung their howls in a harmony, no more than that, in a unifying voice, a singular essence bellowing eternity. Now they were separating from the center, now they were giving him a path and chanting that he should take her, a beagle lying on her back in the center. He approached slowly, admiring the soft white between her hind legs. He would have gone down with her but a rush of conscience gripped him and he ran out the front door. There at his feet was a flowery basket with what looked like a baby inside. He lifted the figure out to discover it was not a baby human but a miniature pink elephant with a card wrapped around her neck. "So this is life," he said after he read it. Those were his last words that morning, for the day had already thoroughly started. Tuesday, October 31, 2006I Feel More Like I Did When I Got Here Than I Do Right NowI walked my first steps in a hair salon, stumbling to the buzz Labels: sex
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