Monday, August 18, 2008
A Family Story
The following is true.
Ty was a beautiful woman, at 39 she was 6 years younger than her oldest stepdaughter Lisa and less than half the age of her husband George. A literal princess, Ty had left Samoa at the tender at of 20 to marry a man nearly 40 years her senior and become an American citizen. It was perhaps her naiveté that lead her to believe he was rich or maybe it was George himself, but George didn’t offer all that she had hoped and she in turn gave George (who had more than his fair share of experience with the opposite sex, marital or not) much more than what he had bargained for.
Nobody really knows what exactly had happened and if you were to ask Ty to explain herself she most likely couldn’t. There had been warning signs, most recently an ugly altercation at the supermarket which entailed assaulting a fellow shopper in the frozen food aisle with a loaf of bread (one is hard pressed not to picture a large loaf of stale French bread used in lieu of a bat). Luckily (or perhaps not) the woman did not press charges.
Today however, was much different and much, much worse. Ty awoke at the usual time and went about her usual routine which consisted of nothing much really. She conversed with her sister who was bravely fighting cancer while raising children without a husband. Ty’s nieces and nephews knew well enough to steer clear of their aunt as would any stranger that gave her a good look in the eye. George was quietly tending to the house that was now overrun with Ty’s family members (Ty’s brother was now living there too for no reason other than to be living in the states, rent free).
It is unknown why Ty decided to take her clothes off and not replace them. Even more unclear is why exactly she was in possession of a samurai sword or how exactly she found it in a house filled with a lifetime of junk. Most perplexing however, was why she, samurai sword in hand, went for a walk sans clothes down the street to the neighborhood church.
As Ty reached the church she was greeted by the both the postman and the gardener, she greeted each of them with the samurai sword. The gardener is still alive.
Ty was a beautiful woman, at 39 she was 6 years younger than her oldest stepdaughter Lisa and less than half the age of her husband George. A literal princess, Ty had left Samoa at the tender at of 20 to marry a man nearly 40 years her senior and become an American citizen. It was perhaps her naiveté that lead her to believe he was rich or maybe it was George himself, but George didn’t offer all that she had hoped and she in turn gave George (who had more than his fair share of experience with the opposite sex, marital or not) much more than what he had bargained for.
Nobody really knows what exactly had happened and if you were to ask Ty to explain herself she most likely couldn’t. There had been warning signs, most recently an ugly altercation at the supermarket which entailed assaulting a fellow shopper in the frozen food aisle with a loaf of bread (one is hard pressed not to picture a large loaf of stale French bread used in lieu of a bat). Luckily (or perhaps not) the woman did not press charges.
Today however, was much different and much, much worse. Ty awoke at the usual time and went about her usual routine which consisted of nothing much really. She conversed with her sister who was bravely fighting cancer while raising children without a husband. Ty’s nieces and nephews knew well enough to steer clear of their aunt as would any stranger that gave her a good look in the eye. George was quietly tending to the house that was now overrun with Ty’s family members (Ty’s brother was now living there too for no reason other than to be living in the states, rent free).
It is unknown why Ty decided to take her clothes off and not replace them. Even more unclear is why exactly she was in possession of a samurai sword or how exactly she found it in a house filled with a lifetime of junk. Most perplexing however, was why she, samurai sword in hand, went for a walk sans clothes down the street to the neighborhood church.
As Ty reached the church she was greeted by the both the postman and the gardener, she greeted each of them with the samurai sword. The gardener is still alive.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Biological Atrocities
Upon the anniversary of misfortune
a requiem for the lovers
who spent the days for want of hours
past
held too tightly in their hands
turned to sand
and returned with the tide
to distant land
alas this wish
was pulled from there lips
before their bodies had turned to ash
"may we exist
together forever
entwined in bliss
may we exit this place
knowing our palace is built
on graves we sit"
alas
may we bid farewell
to the lovers missed
knowing their hearts never split
for they,
the lovers
were joined at the hip
Siamese twins
a requiem for the lovers
who spent the days for want of hours
past
held too tightly in their hands
turned to sand
and returned with the tide
to distant land
alas this wish
was pulled from there lips
before their bodies had turned to ash
"may we exist
together forever
entwined in bliss
may we exit this place
knowing our palace is built
on graves we sit"
alas
may we bid farewell
to the lovers missed
knowing their hearts never split
for they,
the lovers
were joined at the hip
Siamese twins
By me a drink and I'll be like you
As I came to I realized what a futile exercise this was. Once again, a song begins to play in my mind. The desperation, the loneliness… shall I sing it for you?
Was this how it started? Is this how it started? I’m in a bar called ‘The Green Light’ as ominously named as a bar could be. I slide in offering as much hope as I see on your face, utterly aware of how this night is going to end even before it starts. ‘Strangers waiting… up and down the boulevard…’ Oh Christ, am I so drunk that I played this miserable song? Or did I simply will it into existence? Either way, I’m a walking cliché.
You know, I find is entirely odd that in an area of mp3 player’s, iThis and that that not only has the jukebox survived but evolved. Now it’s digital. This would be comforting if it weren’t for the fact that the jukebox exists almost solely in what is surely the most lonely and desperate of man’s dwellings, a bar. A fucking bar, and how did I come to find you here? You do realize that I’m going to relentlessly and ruthlessly judge and resent you for inviting me here. Into your arms, into your bed, into your home and into my head. Yet, I’m well aware of the fact that we’re going to do this again and again and again until we can no longer speak each other’s names without a considerable amount of disdain, if we’re even speaking at that point. But hold on, hold on, I’m almost there.
I’m getting way ahead of myself. Wait no, fuck it. Perhaps the night would’ve turned out entirely different had I selected some Sinatra. A little “Strangers in the Night.” Do you like that? Of course you do. No wait, fuck it. You would’ve liked that wouldn’t you? Yes, yes you would… How fucking cheesy.
You’re ideas on narrative (on? Of…) of narrative are so fucking trite and contrived I don’t know why I’m talking to you. I want to destroy you and all of YOUR ideas. Ideas.
What a futile fucking enterprise.
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