"there are two reasons why i want to throw up. first: cous-cose" B
"why do you keep calling it cous-cose? it's pronounced couscous." C
"cous-kiss. whatever. middle easterners screw up everything. i mean, look at nine eleven, they didn't even hit all five targets. now. second: everything that just went on just now." B
"just remember dad has a turtle tongue and they do this." C sticking tongue out like a worm
"OH GOD. LALALALALALA" B
twenty minutes later.
"you are the most disgusting human beings in the world." B as he takes a magazine and his phone into the bathroom.
an average conversation with my little brother.
the grass felt like nettles pushing into my back, as you hovered over me, catching every breath i made. i know this is is a broken task, but it is so exquisitely beautiful, i cannot stand to let it go, to get up, to tell you to stop brushing your lips on my collar bone, or down the spindly valley of ribs between my breasts.
i should feel hallow, and alone, like a traitor rightfully feels. i should feel desolate, and dirty, like mud stuck in the grooves of a thickly built tire, traveling down the beach to this spot we've found. i should feel exploited and ruined, the camera taking every inch of my ghostly skin, and your softly-rough beard buried deep within it.
instead...i feel whole, i feel alive. we're blocking out a love scene for the next film we will create, you and i. this is the most exhilarating feeling in the world--making me feel like goddess earth, mother of nature and her abundance, that whom belongs to the tangled kelp on the salt land underneath my spine and the icy water that matches my touch.
you're staring intently at my eyes, and i'm hoping you'll break every barrier and suck every last illusion from my non-stop mind. your lips reach mine, and they burn, oh they burn, and i take every heated stroke as if midnight were coming with the tide.
gathering up my inoperable arms you crush me to your chest--i smell everything i've ever desired, in your skin.
"tell me in this moment, what you wouldn't say out loud" you're begging, you're ordering... you're making love to me for the first time.
"i am home."
the words simply won't come out. for once i am exhausted--muc
finished up with a hefty client today, get the check tomorrow... my computer's fan is going out, so i am scrambling to get the cash and get my dream macbook pro. and tomorrow is the day :)
although i make a pretty penny and rarely want, you have to understand that i am a disciplined money wench who pinches every red cent like its the last hot coal on earth. this is a big step for me...
and dare i venture out with the idea of both a macbook and a mid level ipad?.... oh my goodness i've quite spoken out of turn :)
(when i get past the initial guilt, i'll cave because having both are important.. macbook for every day conquering and ipad to impress and travel... it makes sense to get the ipad anyways, since last month i spent a grand total of 9 days at home in my own bed :))
on days like these i feel like a helpless puppet, and you hold the strings. i sit on your stage, go through the motions of your day, and then sleep every night in your cage. it is terrifying to think that you can leave me for as long as you wish, or keep me in a bag at your side. what would happen of you clipped these strings? would i fall to me knees never to return, or get up and fly like the wind out of your marionette theater?
i mentally draw the lines of your face, your legs, your palms... let it burn into this ocean memory. i'm on standby at the airport, knowing you won't be at the finish line... but we'll progress, to the rhythm of these waves, and that sandy beach will get in our clothes and under our skin... we'll be polished like the smoothest of rocks and shells, both unwilling vagrants at sea... but i will harbor you, and you will cling to me. you can't forget the thing that hones you down to the core of your being, that very honesty you fear and seek. you can't forget what makes you stronger, while holding the power to crush your lungs and heart and veins in one fell swoop. you don't forget what lulls you to sleep and what rocks you awake at the swell of a storm. it's in your bones; you breath it in--you bask and bathe in it's presence. you'll be back with the tide.
it twinkled in the sunlight, casting radiant spires of light into the air between us, as if our convictions were in the light apparitions of metal and sun. i was metal--somethi
do you know how much i want you? i want every fiber of your being... down to the courses you take on the coast. your mind can be yours, your body directed by yourself... but the words you give me will always be mine.
you shall be the subject of my greatest study.
it's in these lonely hours i feel strongest. sitting next to you again, the light flickering on the screen, your skin not quite touching, but the heat lingering in your presence--this is when i must force my body to obey my mind... and force my mind to not act...
i could drink your sin like wine. we could act on this tension. you had to get up twice tonight, each time you returned, you leaned closer. my posture was immaculate, my back never leaning or hunching in any direction but upwards...
your rugged fingers danced only once one my shoulder... i think you like having the power to make me tremble.
this is a losing battle. perhaps our resistance to action now, is our penance for thoughts we are aware of.
as your fingers lightly traced the outline of my bone, you leaned over.
"your breath goes to the timing of the music."
you said it proudly, as if to boast something. and then your hand dropped lightly onto your thigh.
i knew you wanted me to lean in towards you, let my hair drop near your neck, take your hand.
this is the game we play though... and so far i'm "winning..."
when you're stumbling over your finger tips, waiting for my breath to rise, do you consider the effect you have on me... the very touch, your glance, your hypnotic smile?
it's been weeks and when my thoughts wander, i freeze.
the blast of tepid air kept circling my steps. sometimes i close my eyes and imagine with each step an orb of color is deposited on whatever i step on. it's an exercise of focus, and that morning i was utilizing it with desperation.
in one side of my thoughts resided an insolent pride--we had created it, and despite everyone trying to stop us, we had not only succeeded, the very people who had tried to stop us were now the ones carrying it through an extended run. i knew the film like my palm--i had written it beside you, seeing in my mind every perceptual still frame; i had not seen it with my eyes as of yet, wanting only to drink it in with you by my side, knowing the consequences of a dark room and your green eyes watching my reactions to my written words given the breath of life by your vision.
gray pervaded the sky, but not the dark dank gray of melancholy. this gray was airy, light, as if embracing the rays of the sun and the blue of the atmosphere. the cinder block of the building might as well have been marble, with how reverently i glanced up at the show times; the matinee might as well been a lost temple, sacred yet strikingly empty.
"one adult ticket please."
"for the showing right now?"
"yes."
"your ticket is at will call, miss."
beat.
"how do you know it's mine?"
"because i was told the only person who would come this early would be a girl with long brown hair."
"it has already been purchased?"
"yes ma'am."
"please let me at least pay for an additional admission."
"but ma'am! you already have a ticket waiting for you."
"i insist."
"alright, if you insist. it's going to be theatre 14, on the left."
he handed me the stub, and i walked through the glass doors with blocks of invisible concrete making an exercise of my will to continue forward. the deep red of the carpet, and soft yellow of the overhead lamps instantly made me think of dante's inferno--the choice to continue forward was a labored effort of my conscious mind battling with my subconscious' chiding emotional plight.
shuffling across the hot coals of the carpet, i bent my head to the beating heat of the mood lighting above. i knew you were watching my arrival, before i even looked up. when i fully realized your telescope eyes, it caused an instantaneous pull--one half of me instantly redeemed by the value of your gaze, strongly pulled me forward, demanded that i straighten my spine, and pull my chin out of my chest, i had returned as the queen to her rightful throne; the opposing part of me screaming in my head that your eyes would damn me with treason, screaming that i run before the gauntlet opened to the world around me and swallowed my dry throat in an abyss of guilt, making due fact of the ridiculous notion that i may be the hanging man in this situation.
my eyes drifted to focus with wide open dilation--meet
"you're not nearly as endearing without the pen marks on your chin." you teased me softly, daring a new world of familiarity between us.
"funny, i see a lens attached to your eye, no matter what you wear, or where you are." i returned it in blows, my eyes never turning away. your smile widened like an open field of daisies, looking up to the sky in exaltation of themselves and the light they demanded.
"shall we?" you held your arm out.
i knew more than anything what that touch would mean. and if i were to loop my arm in yours, there would be no welcome return to this inferno. if i ever attempted to return, i would endure more pain than i had walking through the entrance of the theater. not because i was ashamed of taking your arm--the opposite, actually; if i were to be ripped away from the feeling of ecstasy when i joined your side, i would be spurned into a darkness far worse than what i would be willing to endure to keep your lips, fingers, words, and mind.
i stepped forward, and curled my arm and side into the comforting angles of your body.
i was home.
pour it down, feel it steam my veins, dull my pulse. this deep blue dress feels smooth against my legs.. i even curled my hair... it fell in loose ringlets around my neck, like soft branches on a willow tree.
'don't come. it's unbearable. we should celebrate without hesitation, and tonight offers no solace of that sort. tomorrow we can see it in peace. i'll be there at 11:30 for the early showing--we'll have it to ourselves. i'll see you then."
i'm drinking the '89 pinot noir that i would have given to your wife to celebrate your victory... our victory...
in my palm i'm crushing the stem of my glass, and drinking this down as fast as possible. if i do this, i embrace everything i know is right, while commiting a terrible wrong. if i don't, i'm damned to remember what might be. damned to this mediocre life of apologizing for what i am. damned to keep silent the looks, my trembling fingers, the adoration of your smile... our work...
drink drink drink. forget.
i am sick with anticipation. let this work pay off. if it does not, i have failed, simply because i have not done enough to achieve that which i seek. breath in. breath out.
seeing those words made my breath catch in my throat, like a wave pausing at the shore.
"come to the premier tomorrow?"
the undercurrent of that question shocked me in pleasure, pain, supreme aching desire. you are my match, by 20 years senior. with dull precise flashes of pain, i see your eyes, as i close mine. the green, bright, light, resolute. like a piece of jade, centered in a temple. yes, your mind is a temple, and i find my solitude within your thoughts.
"we'll both be happy to see you."
my mind wanders past the blinding light which is unwarranted hope, to the reality which is your wife. it was a courtesy, letting me know i will carry this pain, and have to do so with the austere mockery of indifference. what i feel for you is anything but indifference.
i will carry this pain, as she holds your arm and basks in the glory she did nothing to contribute. countless nights of you visiting me. we'd get coffee at a dime shop, almost as if transported into the twenties again. she had yelled, screamed, begged that you not obsess over these moving pictures and soundless words and meaningful stories stuck in your mind. you'd seek your solace over a cup of coffee, as you dictated your thoughts to me, and i wrapped them in my strongest ink, healing the wounds of indifferent contempt for the very piece of you that gives you the pristine facets everyone wants.
we never touched. these moments couldn't be stolen by vulgar physical comfort. but not once did our eyes look away. the waitress would come to refill, and we'd both utter quietly yes please, signaling with a small tilt of the neck, but never looking away.
there was never any small talk. once we had both briefly discussed the diet of coffee and sleepless nights that we religiously and fiercely prescribed our lives to. both your wife and my husband-to-be hated the smell and taste of the acrid black liquid... how it clung to our mouths like black tar, our clothes adorned with the signature scent of our most intimate of places. that small token may have seemed insignificant to many--the very small talk we abhorred. but it wasn't. it was our acknowledgment of our supreme sin: letting the people who didn't match our vigorous passion take from us the bounty of our love--our work. they damned us for seeping ourselves into the soul of our utmost extravagance, but damned us if they couldn't have the very result of our extravagance physically manifested. we both knew, with grave curiosity; it stood on the edge of our minds that something wasn't quite right, but we quieted it to continue living, because to begin dying would be worse than anything we could fathom.
you sat and discussed your life, and i never uttered a word of mine. we would wait until just the obelisk of light gray began to appear in the horizon, then we'd leave. at first it was quickly, as if jarred from some dream, and realizing that life is a nightmare. then we began to prolong the leaving, as if the nightmare could wait... the lonely hours of the days, the featherless emails and meaningless small talk at the events of influence we'd both simply float through as if ghosts, never absorbing anything, always waiting at the edge of the door. the last time we saw each other was the night you advertised your vision with the resounding pride of "it's a wrap."
he was out of town on business, and you came to my home unannounced. i didn't occur to me that you had never been to my home. it seemed so natural, the way you entered the door without a knock, standing in the threshold of my office like the proud owner of my eyes.
you crossed quickly, crushed me to your chest, and breathed, "it is finished," as if you had been a victor on a cross, letting your spirit fly into the depths of a blue sky ocean. your eyes circled the shabby room, absorbing the essence of my persistence. "this is the most beautiful you have ever looked," you said it with clarity, holding me at arms length, your fingers lightly curving around my shoulder and collar bone.
i wilted at your touch. whatever you had wished, i would have submitted readily. yet you only stood there, absorbing my spirit in it's home. you asked me to stand in the middle of the room, and you lowered and spread yourself onto the carpet in insolent admiration. my breathing was uneven, my hair messy in a bun, and my skin tallow without a touch of makeup; my clothes were disheveled--wh
you stayed there all night, neither of us spoke nor moved. then you disappeared. rather, i knew where you were, but didn't care to enter her den to see you lower yourself below despair. i'd get notes occasionally, sometimes written on the back of my junk-mail, sometimes in my email. i kept them all, but did not reply, as i knew you didn't want that sanction, just the option of an outlet for your thoughts. i let you erupt on paper for me, and continued formulating the words into stories.
he walked into the room, interrupting my recognizance of our past and future.
"we're invited to the premier."
"wonderful! shall we dress for the occasion?"
"yes, i think we should."
"nice to see his silly world made real, isn't it?"
"yes."
"burn a candle, please... it smells like java."
"yes."
solitude is the rectitude of the creators. perspiration, sleepless nights, pencils chewed straight through. they will not understand--th
when you meet your equal in dream seeking, it can knock the breath out of your chest with a forceful gusto. you look upon this shining being, daring to believe they won't turn into one of the withering souls you see everyday, surrounding you on all sides. but there it lies: a rose among the weeds.
let my icy resolve to be as i am drive you no further away. join me in steadfast solitude: we'll find it in each other.
you called me too proud, and yourself too stubborn. why is pride a sin? because i don't speak of my ability, but rather let it speak for itself? your stubbornness sprouts from the sanction others have given your laziness and demands for charity. they harbored you with the exchange of their rightfully earned money, words, and empathy, for your unjust assumption that you deserve it for the sole reason of just existing. you should never feel as if your existence is one that deserves anything you don't work for.
i stare up at the ceiling, pushing down the bile of disgust in my throat. it is a decadently rich and beautiful cross hatch work of deep wood. you blame me for my prosperity, which i rightfully earned, while you wallow from house to house taking what bread crumbs you can steal from another's pity.
i'm indifferent to your hate, and in contempt of your lust for what is not yours. you will not win.
my ceiling will not come crashing down, and your ideals will not provide a roof over your head.
if nothing else describes this, let it be that my brain was a sponge. i absorbed it all, with no other point but to absorb. every moment of it was pure exaltation; let it be no other way. the sight of your muscles moving smoothly, the smell of your hair and light perspiration, the touch of you brisk skin and mighty heat. it was all as it could be only then. never again. and imprinted into the back of my mind like a deep gash of foreign subsidy. let me feast on this forever.
there is nothing so lonely as realizing you are one of the only of your type. i despise willful ignorance, and despise even more the lack of pride in anything men do today. i don't believe in doing things for others. and i don't think it's wrong. when you devote your soul to that which calls you, it is the only thing in this world you can offer to everyone else as bare, naked, honesty. that is true philonthropism
the love of money isn't evil. money itself is the only thing that represents the value of another's effort--the value of their thoughts put into motion. if you love something, you understand it's truest essence. if you love money, you love your fellow man and understand that the best, deepest respect you can give to him is to attain money with your reciprocated effort and creation, and to do so with vigor and hunger. it is deeply seated bow, with the only intention of calling out the very best within someone. what better a salute is there, than asking someone for their very best that they are capable of?
those that say "the love of money is the root of all evil" don't really believe that... they are the looters, the ones who don't wish to see the best in their fellow man. if it begins to take more effort to earn money, it is because of one of two things.
1. there is healthy competition and innovation.
2. the very essence of money is being thwarted by those that do not wish to earn, only to despise their fellow man by taking what is not theirs.
the ones that despise money believe that success and effort should not be rewarded, but punished. they reward the ones that do nothing, yet punish the ones that hold society itself on their shoulders. it is the most despicable, hateful, contemptuous act that has ever been performed, or looked at as normal and right. how dishonest, how unjustified.
you and i can't be together much longer. you say you understand, but you merely agree to avoid the responsibility of knowledge. to avoid the questions, the debate. i question your motives because that is the only thing holding this world together: motive power.
if you love your fellow man, you will devote yourself to your interests. you will dive in with no repose. if you love me, you will follow your dreams to the end of the earth, and leave me in the dust. you will expect me to match and exceed you. our ecstasy will be in knowing the other is passionate enough to truly make it their life. our ecstasy will be to outdo each other, and celebrate it with liberty.
i don't know that you'll ever be beside me in this. you are only now beginning to learn... and i am so lonely.
sitting next to my porch window, it told me the secrets of sprinklers and children, and sunlight hindered by the strongest of winds... but i can feel the swampy air you skin muddles in, elegant as you are empress. it's like a connection of deep velvet, running through my veins. this desert can't separate us, whether kindred sisters or long lost lovers. it's an incredible vice, this instant intimacy. and my window lies low tonight, because for once we can briefly share the moon. sweet dreams princess.
sometimes.....
my dad emailed this to my proudly hispanic fiance of 3 years.... yesterday, because, hey! if you're racist on an ethnic holiday, it doesn't count:
Drinking with an Arizona Girl
A Mexican, an Arab, and an Arizona girl are in the same bar.
When the Mexican finishes his beer, he throws his glass in the air, pulls out his pistol, and shoots the glass to pieces.
He says, 'In Mexico, our glasses are so cheap we don't need to drink with the same one twice.'
it's not even funny. sheesh. my dad is a noob.