I had the wild misfortune of falling in love with a girl I despise.
That was to be the beginning. It was the direction the story would take: a dark recollection overwrought with bitterness that can be indulged for only so long. The tone and style of that initial sentence had once felt true, but the feeling that sprung it has not sustained.
I had admired her as she sulked through high school hallways, and I penned lines in a notebook, describing how her beauty was a mysterious one, how it evoked (and possibly provoked) both light and dark – pale skin framed by hair of shadow.
[It was in a Microsoft Word Document, I think. But you understand why I’d go with a notebook.]
Years later, I would know her not simply as some girl a grade above me.
But in the first sentence, you can glimpse the young man’s cynicism that had traveled from the first time she asked him for someone else’s phone number all the way to the first time she said she no longer wanted to be more than friends. The phone call she made was a success.
And I tried to hate her. At times, succeeding.
A side serving of years went by, and we made our own intimate mess – one where I could reclaim buried feelings of turquoise and hope: the two forging a new one.
There were others, too:
It couldn’t be labeled as “love-hate”. It was always one or the other. We left no room for ambivalence.
Hogwash.
What happened: “What happened?”
I dived into the confusion, leaving behind the unknown certainty (in the sense that something known became un-known) that ours was a fool’s errand. We were too different in a few bad ways and too similar in a lot of the worst ways, and soon – far too soon – a puppy’s love was replaced with a razor’s rust.
I won’t say what was wrong with her, because too often I had let her know, and that is, in my opinion, what was most wrong with me. Ultimately, we had refused to get along at the same time too much of the time.
Toward the end, we were always boiling over. And in a mode of defense, I pushed her away first. But when we pulled each other back in, I was inspired with fresh-baked hope that arrived within a disturbingly shallow temporal proximity to the moment I was faced with the just and not-so-swift requital of being pushed away myself. See how I try to avoid the simple facts? Trying to ignore the kernels of words unlike these: it was my fault.
The only apparent way to survive is found by recalling the worst in her, but all of these horrid, boulderous moments that once held height to block the sun have now been worn down to such a pebble’s proportion that they fall through the cracks.
What remains: a story with no story, a poem with no verse.
This was to be the end:
We opened up our chests, putting cigarettes out on each others’ hearts.
But that’s a lie. Even figuratively, it’s false. Just as most of the above may be in the next year, or decade, or hour.
Backward <> Forward
Wordsward
How do I love thee? Let me count the threads…
Of course, I’m having a little tickle’s worth of fun at no one’s expense – a mere romping play on words, so you absolutely must excuse me if you were hoping for something a little heavier and void of levity. I beg of you: do not miss the understanding: I do take my pantaloons seriously, but, as a fancy lad in fancy pants, I’m afraid I may present an air of flippancy and social carelessness when I let my sleeve’s heart beat freely for all to hear and see.
Forgive me if I do carry on like the flame upon the wick.
The pants that paint these legs, color them not merely the basking’s amber triumph that blaze before your eyes, but also in shades of warm, tones of snug, and broad, velvety strokes of snaz. Oh, you’ve caught me: a slight commoner wearing the cord of the King? Lock me up. Toss the key into the fire. Let it burn like the crotch of these cords when thighs make haste in conjunction with my whole toward the nearest lavatory. Let it be lost in flame like all other trousers I owned before these. Let it smelt and ooze like the satisfaction does from my similes.
I’d die a thousand deaths as long as before each one I was let to lust my final leaving breath whilst still adorned so assuredly as I am now, in these golden, roasting cords with a width of wale (2.5 per inch) that could rival that of the finest davenports in all of Davenport.
Any death wrapped in a wealth of embrace, as is such the case when clothed as I am, would be ascension to Heaven before Heaven got the chance.
Backward <> Forward
Wordsward
Agent: Babe, babe, listen: it’s me. I’m not just some nobody who works for you. I care about you, babe. I’m your friend. Your pal. Your confidant. We’re in this together. Just please, gimme a straight answer, babe – are you going to the junket or not?
Celebrity: What’s the use?
Agent: The use? Babe, this is your junket. The whole point is for the press to eat you up with a silver spoon, walk away with a nice tote-bag and a willingness to write a great review of your performance as Drake Firebird, the hero of the whole damn picture!
Celebrity: Nobody gives a shit about me.
Agent: Nobody? Are you out of your damn mind? Would I be calling if I didn’t care? What about the fans? You put the asses in the seats. Without you there’s no picture to begin with. The whole country goddamn loves you, babe.
Celebrity: They care about my abs and my smile.
Agent: Who wouldn’t? They’re both perfect!
Celebrity: You’re not listening to me. No one is ever listening to me!
Agent: I’m listening, babe. What’s the problem? We’ll tackle it to the ground together and smash its face in together and piss in its eyes together. You and me. Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid – and, hey – fuck Sundance, after this epic, they’re gonna start calling us Butch Cassidy and The Cannes Kid, lemme tell ya!
Celebrity: Nobody knows who I really am. I don’t even know.
Agent: What are you talking about, sugar? You are the hottest actor of the last fourteen months, and I’m here to make sure you stay on top. Eh? How ’bout that?
Celebrity: Sometimes I feel like…
Agent: There’s your first problem. You’re a star! You don’t have to feel. If you wanna feel, dive into a juicy role. Save that therapy shit for retirement, babe.
Celebrity: This is what I’m talking about.
Agent: I’m the problem? I’m the fucking problem? Well, let me tell ya, I’m the same problem that got you outta playing such notable roles as Partygoer #4 on a single ep of The O.C., ‘kay? So, if I’m the problem, just let me know and I’ll discover some other chump and slap his pretty face on the poster of next summer’s blockbuster.
Celebrity: Hey, you know that’s not what I meant…
Agent: Oh, no, don’t worry about me. My career doesn’t hinge on this press slumber party – yours does, so fuck it. If you wanna have a mid-life crisis before you hit 30, go right ahead. No sweat off my Mac. I’m sure you and your Vicodin prescription will be very happy together, and you won’t have any regrets letting Firebird’s Lament 2: Phoenix Rising be your swansong. And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that a hot celebrity breakdown is more than enough to sell a picture. People will be pitching tents at the Multiplex a month in advance! It’ll be like George Lucas had stuck his thumb of the film’s ass! That’s how goddamn popular it will be. So go ahead and fade away! It’ll make my job a lot easier.
Celebrity: Hey! That’s… that’s not nice.
Agent: My job’ll be easier, sure. But you know what it won’t make easier for me? My personal life. Because… being your agent, being your friend, is what keeps me goin’ half the time. If you gotta drop outta the game, that’s fine. I’m happy for you. I just hope you and I can keep in touch. Because… I love ya, babe. And I only say that to three people: my kids, my mother, and you.
Celebrity: What about your wife?
Agent: Which one? Fuck those dames. I don’t waste love on someone who’s gonna leave me. So, I beg ya, babe: don’t leave me. Leave the film, but don’t leave me. Well, I’m sure you got some soul-searching to do, so I’ll quit bothering you and let you get to it. Don’t forget to write, eh?
Celebrity: C’mon, Randy, you know that…
Agent: I’m gonna hang up and let you find yourself, ‘kay, babe?
Celebrity: Hold on!
(silence)
Celebrity: I want a vegan snack platter in my room at the hotel and I want three vegan girls there eating it when I arrive: a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead who shaves her head but not her snatch, okay?
Agent: Is that all? Babe! Anything you want. I could have an army of pescetarians riding around naked on unicycles if that’s what it takes to get your blood pumping. Just tell me and it’s yours.
Celebrity: You know what I want a redhead with a full head of hair too. But easy on the freckles, okay?
Agent: This additional redhead? Should she be shaved below the belt for contrast?
Celebrity: Um, sure. But have some merkins lying around just in case.
Agent: Of course. Pits?
Celebrity: Trimmed, not shaved.
Agent: All of them?
Celebrity: You know what: alternate.
Agent: You got it, babe.
Backward <> Forward
Wordsward