a gentleman would walk but never run, just like this new guy who started working the other day. he wears white everyday, buttoned up all the way except for the neck, starched collars with a couple of hair strings peeping out from below his also white t-shirt underneath.
he's very proper, always says hi, nods if you catch his eyes on the way to the men's room, or the director's office in the corner. he speaks very slowly, but not too slow, just very clear. he's got a low voice, thick and deep and easily audible, he never raises it. he spews as few words as possible to convey his message, as if he pays sales tax on every single one. he only talks business, with the most subtle smile on his face.
in his small nylon lunch box he carries fruits for breakfast and a sandwich and a tomato for his lunch. he takes his lunch in private, noone ever sees him eating. you just know he's just had lunch if you catch him rinsing off his tupperware in the kitchen. he pops a soda in the afternoon, same time, same can. noone knows if he finishes, he rarely takes a sip. nevertheless, you'd find his can in the recycling bin at the end of the day, everyday.
there was a bee in the office today. v announced its presence with a short cry from her cubicle. then it bugged d and s, and then it was on my monitor and i waved it away. then i heard a loudest slap from the next aisle. i turned around to catch the new guy whirling like a mad man in the middle of the his cubicle, slamming his big white hands together every which way, panting nonstop. he suddenly froze with his hands clammed supposedly on the insect, crunched them together for a while, and dropped the remainder on the carpet and stumped on it with a firm and loud thud.
he straightened his collar, nodded at a few of us staring at him, and sat down at his cubicle, completely in peace with the world. we heard him slurp his soda today, i think he finished it too.
an apple a day keeps the bottle away. he ran out of apples today, or was it yesterday? maybe today, just a few years back.
on his right shoulder he's got a barcode tattoo from a kleenex box once full of white two-ply tissues, clean and scented and folded with ungodly precision. do you feel shitty in general? did you have a shitty day at work? did you just break up and feel like shit? did your significant other defecate on your whole entire life? well why don't you take a tissue from him and vent all of your crap into it? please dispose responsibly when you're done, and also be considerate, don't take too many, there are others behind you with their own shit with nowhere to dump it.
did you not get a chance to use him today? no worries, there are a few tissues left for tomorrow, and the day after, and the next day as well. oh please don't, he's totally fine. it's not like he's never used human tissues to wipe off his own shit. what goes around comes around, ten times stronger, some times a hundred.
a bottle a day safely keeps all these shitty thoughts away, for a few hours, until he wakes up in the middle of the night, panting, looking for the white clicker of his bedlamp, and remembering for the millionth time that he's moved out today, or was it yesterday? or seven years ago?
i hope you don't exist.
just in case you do, i hope you didn't create everything, say human beings. in case you're there and you did actually create human race, i sincerely hope the common belief that you know everything is but only a popular rumor.
because if you exist and you created mankind knowing very well what they'll go through during their miserable little trailers of a lifetime you are most definitely the sickest, meanest, loneliest, most fucked up being in the entire universe.
please tell me you don't exist.
they come over last night after the longest time. he and he and he, my partners in crime. we sit down in quiet around the decanter and four glasses, one and two and three until someone talks: let's drink a last one to the one who just died. let the festivities begin.
he then produces a rather peculiar package out of the side pocket of his jacket, wrapped in newspaper, smothered in blood. he proceeds to unwrapping a slab of raw steaming meat out in the middle of the sushi table in front of him. fresh hot blood oozes out of its corners as he carefully slices it with sashimi precision and hands us each a few juicy crimson pieces, upon which we start chewing absentmindedly. once rinsed down with another pour the other presents some chopped liver lightly braised in bile and kidney broth followed by two racks of fresh raw ribs still withholding live breathing lungs in between. once garnished with sea salt and fresh red pepper flakes we take turns in poking our fangs into the lungs, tearing a couple of ribs apart and passing the rest to the next one around. more wine, and more wine. he says something without expecting a response, and he gets none.
though still pounding, the blackened heart reeks of rotten dried blood. he starts peeling off the dried crust as tears start to blur his eyes, the next peels another layer of somewhat softer tissues and we keep peeling and peeling until all that's left is a pink piece of muscle the size of a small toe with all our four faces soaked in tears flooding our of our swollen eyes. he sets the finger on fire and we stare at it burning slowly into a a black piece of char filling the air with its stinking odor. wine, more wine. noone says anything.
then they leave. the funeral is over and the remainder of the deceased is now part of our bones and flesh, his blood running inside our veins. it's a good thing we got rid of his rotten heart, we're all better without it, without him. i speculate about when they'll come back to me again, and who's next to die. until then, i keep drinking the rest of the wine in the world, one decanter at a time.
i hope i'm next.
his soul is dead; says dr m.
but that wasn't all. not that he didn't know any of it before, but reassurance never hurts. he tried his best to talk succinct, nothing wordy, although he did make sure he throws in the keywords. indifference, inevitable death, universal misery and innate miscommunication of mankind.
he's stuck on track two of thirteen, "once". it's pretty cheesy. too cheesy. right up his alley, and he's stuck. nice is the new deceitful, according to dr m. noone's nice, unless you're lying of course. everyone's just who he is. selfish lonely creatures scattered across planet zoo. "and when i'm a good dog they sometimes throw me a bone in." gods are brutal, but they're feeding us, so suck it up and live it.
track two restarts, only for the millionth time. she asked what he sees in the world, and if he ever stares at ants. of course she doesn't need to know that he counts the ants line on the edge of the tub every single morning to decide how many he could wash off into the drain that day. he says he sees perfect order in the whole and perfect chaos in details. she says ocean is significant and powerful and it's only made up of insignificant drops. he says he chooses to be the one that's left behind on the sand when the tide goes in, detached for good. cliche. corny. right up his alley, stuck on track two.
it's her voice probably, marketa irglova, suits the voice. she says indifference beats depression since the latter is a known phenomenon with a clear recovery path. indifference is the survival strategy of the selfless. when all one lives for is others, when self is suppressed, disappointed. she's right and wrong. he does live for others, yet his ego beats the ocean she's mesmerized with, which part of i-know-better-than-all-of-you-suckers signifies suppression?
or maybe it's the beat? or the scene from the movie? dr m believes his anima is suffocating him. she believes his dreams of we-all-know-who does not mean he wants her back, but that he hasn't let go. that he's in love with his anima and embodies it in the memory of this one woman who's walked him through the discovery. she's right probably. for one thing this explains the intimate shower sessions between his hands with the masculine member, it's not him, it's the horny anima.
last time he listened to one song so many times was probably first year of college, the all-nighters, indefinite whispering phone calls with this one tape of one song recorded over and over again in the background. whatever. towards the end dr m has one advice. cherish the dreams. she believes when the conscious persona gives up on life, the solution is in the subconscious. write down your dreams, she says. don't take them for face value, they're showing you what's holding you back. she asks if he believes in symbols. dr m does. he doesn't. he's lying like a dog.
thank you dr m, he thinks. he might never visit her again. dr m is a fine woman who thinks his soul is dead, that his status is worse than depression and that his self is suppressed with his anima running his show. she might be right, or might be wrong. dr m's words don't make any difference either. words are meaningless, expressionless. nothing matters, really, and the same song plays over and over and over again: if you want me, satisfy me.
there's a storm brewing over hollywood hills, time to sail away. she's always naked in my dreams, and it's so natural none of us brings it up. she's doing what she's doing and i'm usually reading a book or watching something on tv. sometimes i touch her skin on my way to the kitchen to grab a beer or something; sometimes she asks me about something i was supposed to follow up for her, to which i mutter some vague answer without interrupting what i'm doing. sometimes she walks cross my eyesight, fully naked, and i don't even notice.
sometimes we make love. she's often quite, her lips placid, her eyes wide open looking away to one side. sometimes she comes first. when she does she closes her eyes, gasps and stretches her neck, clings tightly to my shoulders for a few seconds before relaxing her facial muscles; after which she thrusts me in between her thighs not to stop until i finish and we both lie down dead still, i hear her heart beat as she breathes in my ear. then she leaves for the bathroom, and i watch her wobble away from me, in silence.
sometimes she's on the phone. she grabs her knees into her chest and leans against the cushions on the couch. her voice is serious, i almost don't recognize her, she never uses that tone with me. sometimes i put my head on her lap while she's talking, sometimes she walks away, fully naked, and i don't even notice.
sometimes someone's over. sometimes it's a friend of mine, i talk to him. sometimes it's a friend of hers, she talks to her. we go to movies. we eat. we talk about things. then we say bye and we go home. sometimes i brush my teeth first, sometimes she gets online before coming to bed. sometimes i'm asleep when she does, sometimes i hug her from behind before going to sleep, before we settle away to our own sides. sometimes our toes touch. sometimes that's all that matters to me, that our toes always touch when we're going to bed. sometimes i don't even notice. sometimes it's weird, since we've just had a fight, but our toes still touch.
i always wake up first. i always look at her. sometimes she's naked, sometimes she's not. sometimes she's wearing her pink gown, with her breast hanging out. sometimes its the white one with the string, sometimes i pull it to bare her nipple. sometimes i don't.
sometimes she's not there. then i realize i am awake. that she'll never be there, ever. sometimes i smile. sometimes i don't. it doesn't matter, really.
there's a black crow flying high above the hills in front of me, way below the clouds. its getting dark outside, a storm is coming and i should leave now.
i always wonder, did we ever talk?
opposites attract, and he repels, everyone.
there's nothing you could do to make someone love you; but there's a million things you could do to make them hate your guts. there's almost nothing in life to look forward to, but there's a whole lot to regret. there's very little to appreciate, but there's everything one needs to feel disappointed. lovers who leave, friends who let you down, and families who are just not there anymore.
and of course it's only worse when you're the lover who leaves, the friend who lets down and the one who moved away. how do cowards seek closure? how do assholes get along? is there a jerks' support group somewhere? hi my name is fuck you and i'm a douche bag. i'm worthless, subnormal and intolerable.
he thought about all this as he wondered if all of this is a pathetic cry for attention. he spent some time thinking if he cares what people think of him at all, and he realized he does though he likes to say he doesn't. he spent some more time wondering if life is about living up to the images people hold from him, he found the idea disturbing and conveniently dismissed it as soon as his mozarella and tomato pizza was ready.
he decided gogol bordello's right when he says there's no such thing as good old days, and that there's only today and a little bit of tomorrow and they're both very shitty. he also decided that from now on he'll only lower expectations to raise satisfaction, maybe now he'll stop worrying about the result, if any. he gave up on love, companionship and affection, and immediately labeled all subjects of this phenomenon to "mentally deranged" and "hopelessly optimistic". he was about to decide many other things but then he was tired and he ran out of wine, so he gave up and laid down instead, and he was really happy, or truly depressed, and then only realized that they're both really the same.
he then grabbed his book and lived the rest of his fiction. facts were never his forte.
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