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It's nice not to be yourself sometimes, or to be more specific, the self you're used to being. To shed the skin of habit. To remind your super-ego of it's secret identity. To finally breathe again, I mean really Breathe: Like when you fall asleep with your boots on and wake up long enough to kick them off. That wonderful moment of recognition when you realize that you just might be the person you wanted to be when you grew up and that little fact tucked away in your brain feels as sweet as a secret and as dangerous as a loaded gun.
Jun. 21st, 2006
No one deserves it
Jun. 21st, 2006 12:40 pmShe's got the TV on for company. The background noise numbs her down a bit, almost making the emptiness of the apartment seem bearable. She dials his number again. Five rings and the sudden snap of his goofy laugh greets her and invites her to leave a message after the beep. She hangs up but can't bring herself to let go of the phone yet. She lights herself another cigarette, temporarily abandoning her promise not to smoke inside and she sits down on the couch staring at the TV absently and without thinking about it she dials his number again...
They had a fight.
Again.
As usual it began with just one little detail. Did it really matter which one? An empty plate left in the fridge, an unmade bed for the fifth morning in a row, the toliet paper enstalled upside down, a shrug instead of a 'yes' or even a 'no'... the truth was that there was no offense so minute, so inconsequential that it couldn't escape justifying the worst in both of them. Verbally they circle each other, waiting for the exact moment the other would show the slightest sign of weakness and they'd go in for the kill.
And the fights ended the same way.
She would cry, drink, scream and cry some more. He would get into his car and drive... just drive until he was out of beer or cigarettes and he'd pull back into the apartment complex, where she was waiting for him on the balcony half mad, half naked and drunk.
They wouldn't say sorry. They wouldn't hug. They wouldn't make love. Instead they fucked. They fucked a raw pain into each other until there was no room for the hate anymore...and then they fucked some more until exhaustion and sobriety caught up with them.
But it's been too long. He should've been back by now. He should've answered the phone if only to tell her to 'go fuck herself'. What if she went to far this time? What if she pushed him away for good? Was it possible that he forgot that the Hate was her way of saying 'I love you'.
And she dials his number again...
... he's looking at his cell phone ringing. He doesn't have to answer it to know who it is. He wants to answer it, he wants to hear her voice just one more time and tell her he loves her and he's sorry from the bottom of his fucked up miserable heart. His face is pressed flat into the hood of the squad car. He watches the sirens flood the surface reflection along in shifts of red and blue. They got the cuffs on tight and the tips of his fingers tingle with numbness where the blood won't go. A can shy of an empty six pack on the floorboard, a roach in the ashtray, an expired license and that makes strike number three. He should've listened to his P.O. but he got a job under the table and disappeared. He should've listened to his instincts and crashed at his friends house. He should've listened to her mainly and now he can't no matter how badly he wants to.
It's ringing again. She just won't stop calling. She won't give up on him. He's her man and no matter how many times he fucks up that fact won't change. She's so close to him now. Her voice is potentially only a foot away. Finally one of the officers steps up behind him, he picks up the phone.
"You're real popular tonight aincha?" His laugh drips like piss in his ear. The officer checks the number, nods smugly to himself and clicks 'Ignore'.
No one deserves it. No ever does really, but here we are everyday wondering what it was we did to bring us here.
They had a fight.
Again.
As usual it began with just one little detail. Did it really matter which one? An empty plate left in the fridge, an unmade bed for the fifth morning in a row, the toliet paper enstalled upside down, a shrug instead of a 'yes' or even a 'no'... the truth was that there was no offense so minute, so inconsequential that it couldn't escape justifying the worst in both of them. Verbally they circle each other, waiting for the exact moment the other would show the slightest sign of weakness and they'd go in for the kill.
And the fights ended the same way.
She would cry, drink, scream and cry some more. He would get into his car and drive... just drive until he was out of beer or cigarettes and he'd pull back into the apartment complex, where she was waiting for him on the balcony half mad, half naked and drunk.
They wouldn't say sorry. They wouldn't hug. They wouldn't make love. Instead they fucked. They fucked a raw pain into each other until there was no room for the hate anymore...and then they fucked some more until exhaustion and sobriety caught up with them.
But it's been too long. He should've been back by now. He should've answered the phone if only to tell her to 'go fuck herself'. What if she went to far this time? What if she pushed him away for good? Was it possible that he forgot that the Hate was her way of saying 'I love you'.
And she dials his number again...
... he's looking at his cell phone ringing. He doesn't have to answer it to know who it is. He wants to answer it, he wants to hear her voice just one more time and tell her he loves her and he's sorry from the bottom of his fucked up miserable heart. His face is pressed flat into the hood of the squad car. He watches the sirens flood the surface reflection along in shifts of red and blue. They got the cuffs on tight and the tips of his fingers tingle with numbness where the blood won't go. A can shy of an empty six pack on the floorboard, a roach in the ashtray, an expired license and that makes strike number three. He should've listened to his P.O. but he got a job under the table and disappeared. He should've listened to his instincts and crashed at his friends house. He should've listened to her mainly and now he can't no matter how badly he wants to.
It's ringing again. She just won't stop calling. She won't give up on him. He's her man and no matter how many times he fucks up that fact won't change. She's so close to him now. Her voice is potentially only a foot away. Finally one of the officers steps up behind him, he picks up the phone.
"You're real popular tonight aincha?" His laugh drips like piss in his ear. The officer checks the number, nods smugly to himself and clicks 'Ignore'.
No one deserves it. No ever does really, but here we are everyday wondering what it was we did to bring us here.
A Family Resemblance?
Jun. 21st, 2006 03:57 pmI've discovered a possible ancestor of mine in Dante's Inferno.
Meet Mosca Dei Lamberti, who for his sins of being a "Sower of Political Discord", sits eternally in the eigth circle of Hell: Bolgian Nine (Canto 28). He apparently shares this circle with, among other secular trouble makers, a one Fra Dolcino who should be a name familiar to fans of Umberto Eco's Name of the Rose (if not think of a roving medieval hippy commune that looted and wife swaped in the name of "our" savior...Jesus Christ). Here poor Mosca, Dolcino and probably all those Italian Mod Communists of the late 60's, early 70's are hacked and torn asunder!
For all eternity!
By a great demon with a big freakin' sword!
Fucking A huh?
See it turns out Dante's God has a "Let the punishment fit the crime" kinda sense of humor. Those who attempted to rend asunder what Mr.Jehovah meant to be united in 'the sweet light of the living', are torn asunder literally, forever and I repeat by a great demon with a sword!
Oh my poor potential ancestor, sower of the sweet sin of political discord (and isn't that just another name for a wish for liberty, equality and peace!), rest in your damnation good sir and know that they still haven't purged the heresy from our blood line yet!
"Sorry old Chap...looks like you backed the wrong horse!"
You Are Here!
Meet Mosca Dei Lamberti, who for his sins of being a "Sower of Political Discord", sits eternally in the eigth circle of Hell: Bolgian Nine (Canto 28). He apparently shares this circle with, among other secular trouble makers, a one Fra Dolcino who should be a name familiar to fans of Umberto Eco's Name of the Rose (if not think of a roving medieval hippy commune that looted and wife swaped in the name of "our" savior...Jesus Christ). Here poor Mosca, Dolcino and probably all those Italian Mod Communists of the late 60's, early 70's are hacked and torn asunder!
For all eternity!
By a great demon with a big freakin' sword!
Fucking A huh?
See it turns out Dante's God has a "Let the punishment fit the crime" kinda sense of humor. Those who attempted to rend asunder what Mr.Jehovah meant to be united in 'the sweet light of the living', are torn asunder literally, forever and I repeat by a great demon with a sword!
Oh my poor potential ancestor, sower of the sweet sin of political discord (and isn't that just another name for a wish for liberty, equality and peace!), rest in your damnation good sir and know that they still haven't purged the heresy from our blood line yet!
"Sorry old Chap...looks like you backed the wrong horse!"
You Are Here!