The cameras rolling, her on her stomach, the bright lights penetrating every thought. Thoughts about her childhood are streaming from somewhere, somewhere she's tried to run from and fuck away. "If I just put enough of the good between the then and the now, it'll finally be gone. It'll finally leave me alone." The sweat dripping from above, falling on the small of her back. She wonders if any of her family have stumbled on any of her work. If her little brother, late at night been looking at websites he knew he shouldn't have been and thought, "Holy shit, that's Victoria, that's my sister." The phone calls had stopped a long time ago, from both ends. The shame and disgust from her father and her mother's nonchalant denial of everything that had happened to her. Rolling over, the man above her asking, "You like that?". She remembers when she started doing this for money and how it seemed to hurt to have to lie. More memories from somewhere deep down inside flash inside her eyelids, her eyes clenched shut and only getting tighter. "Why would someone do that to a little girl? Why did it have to be me?" She wonders if someone watching this could tell that she was fighting off tears, if they could sense that she didn't want to be there; like a murderer on trial, televised for the world to see. Head down, arms folded, waiting for a verdict to be read. She bites down hard on the gum in her mouth, she tries to focus on something, something not inside her, something not painful, something that meant her no harm. The man finishes, the evidence streaming down her face, onto her naked body. She just wants to be somewhere else; maybe not so much away from here but sometime else. Before her innocence had been taken, before she felt unsafe in her father's arms.
The water from the shower fogging the glass in the bathroom at the studio. She wonders how much semen has been washed down this drain, how many girls sat in this shower and wondered if this would be all they ever knew, questioning if they've got a soul left at all? The tile beneath her feet is cold and somewhat refreshing after how hot the shower had been. She walks to the mirror and uses two fingers to wipe the steam away just enough to see her eyes. She looks for a moment but turns away before she's forced to see the person looking back at her. The only person left in this world who knew any better, who knew what she was capable of, who knew who she was. She pulls on her clothes and walks down the hall, collects her paycheck and walks to her car. Noticing that she's out of cigarettes she walks to the gas station across the street and walks inside. The attendant gives her a look reserved for people who've spit in your face as she walks to the counter.
"Can I get a pack of Marlboro Lights?"
"Sure, but you can't pay with fuck money, whore."
She walks away without her cigarettes. "I should have known better. I shouldn't have come here." She'd heard the stories about the owners across the street, she'd heard about the horrible things they'd said to girls who came from where she'd just left. "I don't know that I would have said anything different. I don't know that I blame her for what she just called me. In the eyes of someone who's looking in at me, I am just that. A whore." The world had become something different, something hostile. In the two years she'd been doing this since she turned 18 she wishes she'd kept track of the number of people she'd been with. She felt used up, like the little engine that couldn't. She felt life before she came here, before she read the ad in the paper, before she stepped off the bus was something so far away, something so unfamiliar and strange to her that she didn't believe it had ever happened. If you asked her, she couldn't remember where she came from. Who her friends were. Where she was born.
She always asked that she didn't know the names of the men she slept with. She figured that it wasn't real, she wasn't doing anything wrong if she didn't know them. It helped if she didn't know them, if she could look the other way and not ever see them again. Forcing herself not to create a memory of them. Keeping them out of your consciousness and more importantly, your subconscious. If she saw them again on the street, she could honestly say she'd never met them before; there was no recognition. Nothing that could tie the now to the then. It's comparable to drug addiction in the way that if you are a recovering addict, the last thing you want to see is a syringe full of heroin walking around waiting to bump into you.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
21st century lover boy.
His phone vibrates in his pocket, the messages all cute, sweet, and short. In our age the sweet little nothings that you would have whispered into your lover's ear when our grandparents were our age are now text reading across a small cell phone screen. It's the same feeling washing over you, the same simple idea, the same rush. The only difference is that it's easier to misread a situation, easier to not take something the right way, or not even hear what's being said. The death of everything simple. The death of everything genuine. There is no recovery, no going back to when love was love and it was as simple as that. No text messaging, no trying to interpret vague or overly neutral messages, no guessing.
It makes me wonder if its ever been simple. If there's always been this massive disconnect between what a woman says and what she means, between what a man is told and what he hears and wants to believe. I know that in my personal experience, it's always been this way; but then again I'm only 22 years old. Who knows how it was 50 or even 100 years ago. Was it exactly what was said and that's that; or have men like myself always been second-guessing and torturing themselves with every possible angle or meaning that something could have? I guess we'll never know. Ultimately, its debatable at best. My reason for asking these questions is that lately all I seem to be doing when it comes to dating or "hanging out", depending on who you're talking to and what they're comfortable with saying that you're doing together, is interpreting actions, phrases, body language, and all kinds of other things that will single handedly destroy a man's soul and confidence.
How are we ever supposed to be able to 'fall in love' if we're constantly saying things with hidden meanings, testing the water, or not saying what we mean? There's no hope for something that requires ultimate honesty when we do this giant, extremely pointless, and retarded dance around what we're actually feeling and going through. We're all so afraid that all these things could go wrong, rejection, appearing needy, or sometimes finding out that the person feels the same as you.
I'm not sure that there's anything to get out of any of what I'm writing. My advice? Learn to let things be simple. Learn to let things take you where you might not have expected. What's the worst that could happen?
It makes me wonder if its ever been simple. If there's always been this massive disconnect between what a woman says and what she means, between what a man is told and what he hears and wants to believe. I know that in my personal experience, it's always been this way; but then again I'm only 22 years old. Who knows how it was 50 or even 100 years ago. Was it exactly what was said and that's that; or have men like myself always been second-guessing and torturing themselves with every possible angle or meaning that something could have? I guess we'll never know. Ultimately, its debatable at best. My reason for asking these questions is that lately all I seem to be doing when it comes to dating or "hanging out", depending on who you're talking to and what they're comfortable with saying that you're doing together, is interpreting actions, phrases, body language, and all kinds of other things that will single handedly destroy a man's soul and confidence.
How are we ever supposed to be able to 'fall in love' if we're constantly saying things with hidden meanings, testing the water, or not saying what we mean? There's no hope for something that requires ultimate honesty when we do this giant, extremely pointless, and retarded dance around what we're actually feeling and going through. We're all so afraid that all these things could go wrong, rejection, appearing needy, or sometimes finding out that the person feels the same as you.
I'm not sure that there's anything to get out of any of what I'm writing. My advice? Learn to let things be simple. Learn to let things take you where you might not have expected. What's the worst that could happen?
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Something sweet...
His words hurt even when he's trying to be nice, when a compliment turns into a jab, when a kind word turns into an insult. It's just too late to take anything the way it's intended tonight. Making trips to 7-11 at 3am for cigarettes and something to try to scare away the hunger growing inside. The poison pulsing through their veins, a slurpee might just hit the spot.
The track marks hiding under sleeves pulled and stretched long, just to hide the scars of the recent past. The doors swing closed behind, walking down the aisles, eyeing the chips and candy, false filling, sugar and corn starch. Picking up a bag of fritos, a pack of gum, and the biggest cup of iced sugar water possible, walking together to the check stand.
The attendant has seen this a million times before. "If only I could say something, say that one thing that would get through to them... but I can't." They scrounge for change and crumpled dirty dollar bills, finding just enough to pay, having to leave the pack of gum behind. The disappointment and embarrassment that would be felt by most patrons is no where to be found. So used to having to make larger and larger sacrifices to feed the habit, to continue down their path; what's a pack of gum?
Making their way into the night, even though it's somewhere around 3:30, it still feels early. When your days run into weeks and months into years, days are a measurement of time that are no longer real. Walking down the empty street, filled with potholes and cracks in every direction, water left behind by a late night rain. The air hot and muggy, making their clothes heavy, sticking to their skin. She looks at him, wondering what she's doing here, how she had ended up this way, why she'd stayed so long. Thinking that this must be what people are talking about when they say it's like the train wreck that you can't look away from. She'd been with him before the devil's counterfeits had taken hold. Before the daily fix was the most important thing to him. Before she'd bought her ticket to ride on the train headed for disaster. She knows that it wasn't wrong to love him back then. She knows that there's nothing she could have done to make him see what he was eventually going to give up, give away, and sell just to make it through one more day, to one more fix.
She knows that eventually, if she wants to make it out alive, she'll have to leave. He was headed nowhere, way too fast. She'd always figured that there would be the brick wall he needed to hit before he'd anything clearly. Before their lives had turned into one sad joke after another she'd thought that they'd be together forever, settle down and have kids of their own, lives of their own.
She vaguely remembers what she had pictured their home looking like, two cars in the driveway, kids toys scattered over the lawn, bikes on the driveway. Her husband coming home from a long day at the office, loving his family, loving her. Snapped out of the day dream by the sound of the screen door to their small dingy apartment slamming closed.
They lived in a tri-plex off of one of the main side streets downtown, the streets you would take if you were trying to beat traffic on the freeway or drive on the way home from the bar, trying to avoid the cops. The furniture filling the house looked like it had been there 10 years too long, although she remembers buying it not more than a year ago. The carpet more a series of unstained patches than the alternative. The kitchen was filled with spills, dirty dishes fill the sink and have begun to stink. She doesn't remember the last time she used a clean plate or fork.
The track marks hiding under sleeves pulled and stretched long, just to hide the scars of the recent past. The doors swing closed behind, walking down the aisles, eyeing the chips and candy, false filling, sugar and corn starch. Picking up a bag of fritos, a pack of gum, and the biggest cup of iced sugar water possible, walking together to the check stand.
The attendant has seen this a million times before. "If only I could say something, say that one thing that would get through to them... but I can't." They scrounge for change and crumpled dirty dollar bills, finding just enough to pay, having to leave the pack of gum behind. The disappointment and embarrassment that would be felt by most patrons is no where to be found. So used to having to make larger and larger sacrifices to feed the habit, to continue down their path; what's a pack of gum?
Making their way into the night, even though it's somewhere around 3:30, it still feels early. When your days run into weeks and months into years, days are a measurement of time that are no longer real. Walking down the empty street, filled with potholes and cracks in every direction, water left behind by a late night rain. The air hot and muggy, making their clothes heavy, sticking to their skin. She looks at him, wondering what she's doing here, how she had ended up this way, why she'd stayed so long. Thinking that this must be what people are talking about when they say it's like the train wreck that you can't look away from. She'd been with him before the devil's counterfeits had taken hold. Before the daily fix was the most important thing to him. Before she'd bought her ticket to ride on the train headed for disaster. She knows that it wasn't wrong to love him back then. She knows that there's nothing she could have done to make him see what he was eventually going to give up, give away, and sell just to make it through one more day, to one more fix.
She knows that eventually, if she wants to make it out alive, she'll have to leave. He was headed nowhere, way too fast. She'd always figured that there would be the brick wall he needed to hit before he'd anything clearly. Before their lives had turned into one sad joke after another she'd thought that they'd be together forever, settle down and have kids of their own, lives of their own.
She vaguely remembers what she had pictured their home looking like, two cars in the driveway, kids toys scattered over the lawn, bikes on the driveway. Her husband coming home from a long day at the office, loving his family, loving her. Snapped out of the day dream by the sound of the screen door to their small dingy apartment slamming closed.
They lived in a tri-plex off of one of the main side streets downtown, the streets you would take if you were trying to beat traffic on the freeway or drive on the way home from the bar, trying to avoid the cops. The furniture filling the house looked like it had been there 10 years too long, although she remembers buying it not more than a year ago. The carpet more a series of unstained patches than the alternative. The kitchen was filled with spills, dirty dishes fill the sink and have begun to stink. She doesn't remember the last time she used a clean plate or fork.
Sunset
Sandstone beneath his feet, each step grinding down to it's original form. The sand working its way between his sandals and skin. The walls of stone reach above him on either side to where his eyes can only see a strip of sky. He pushes on the walls with his arms outstretched, as if to try to move these mountains farther apart. Pools of water fill the deeper parts of the canyon, stuck there until they either evaporate or seep somewhere farther below.
Walking further the canyon's walls open into a clearing, a dried riverbed filled with stones moved along during rainstorms and flash floods; they find a place where the force of the water just couldn't move them any further. Sitting on one of the larger stones he watches the sunset. Bright orange and red hues fill the sky in front of him. It's almost too much to take in, the red of the rock and the red of the sun mixing and almost become one. If he hadn't been told long ago in school that the sun was so far away, he would've believed that the sun was part of the rock. Making its journey from one side of the canyon to the other and settling in between the grains of sand in the sand stone. Like the way water seeps into sand, but fire instead. The canyon grows darker and darker still. What had once been beautiful and comforting now becomes sinister and untrustable. The walls dark now and climbing around him into the sky. No escape in sight. He finds higher ground and lays down. The rock beneath him offering no comfort. His eyes finally close, and sleep finds him.
He dreams of open pastures, clear paths, and rivers running freely. In these dreams he finds himself running to the bank of the river and drinking until he can't swallow one more drop. He stands next to the river and looks around at the green of the grass, the moss that has grown on the rocks in the shallower parts. He turns and walks away, walking through the tall grass in the evening. No walls of stone in sight. He finds pleasure in walking in any direction he pleases. Turning off the path and walking as far as he wants. The ground beneath him solid, no sinking feeling of sand. The dirt brown, nothing red or orange. Finding a soft bed of pine needles he lays down, his eyes finally close, and sleep finds him. Before he can think how comfortable he is here, his eyes open.
Walls of sandstone on either side of him. He stands, finding he has barely enough room to stretch his arms out wide. The strip of sky above him already blue and full of heat beaming down on his forehead. Never a sunrise, never the cool of the morning, never the beginning of a day. He readies himself for the endless journey of the day ahead. He tries to count the number of days he's woken up this way. Realizing he's lost count and that it's pointless to count days in eternity, he begins to set one foot in front of the other.
"If only," he thinks to himself, "I didn't know this was hell."
Walking further the canyon's walls open into a clearing, a dried riverbed filled with stones moved along during rainstorms and flash floods; they find a place where the force of the water just couldn't move them any further. Sitting on one of the larger stones he watches the sunset. Bright orange and red hues fill the sky in front of him. It's almost too much to take in, the red of the rock and the red of the sun mixing and almost become one. If he hadn't been told long ago in school that the sun was so far away, he would've believed that the sun was part of the rock. Making its journey from one side of the canyon to the other and settling in between the grains of sand in the sand stone. Like the way water seeps into sand, but fire instead. The canyon grows darker and darker still. What had once been beautiful and comforting now becomes sinister and untrustable. The walls dark now and climbing around him into the sky. No escape in sight. He finds higher ground and lays down. The rock beneath him offering no comfort. His eyes finally close, and sleep finds him.
He dreams of open pastures, clear paths, and rivers running freely. In these dreams he finds himself running to the bank of the river and drinking until he can't swallow one more drop. He stands next to the river and looks around at the green of the grass, the moss that has grown on the rocks in the shallower parts. He turns and walks away, walking through the tall grass in the evening. No walls of stone in sight. He finds pleasure in walking in any direction he pleases. Turning off the path and walking as far as he wants. The ground beneath him solid, no sinking feeling of sand. The dirt brown, nothing red or orange. Finding a soft bed of pine needles he lays down, his eyes finally close, and sleep finds him. Before he can think how comfortable he is here, his eyes open.
Walls of sandstone on either side of him. He stands, finding he has barely enough room to stretch his arms out wide. The strip of sky above him already blue and full of heat beaming down on his forehead. Never a sunrise, never the cool of the morning, never the beginning of a day. He readies himself for the endless journey of the day ahead. He tries to count the number of days he's woken up this way. Realizing he's lost count and that it's pointless to count days in eternity, he begins to set one foot in front of the other.
"If only," he thinks to himself, "I didn't know this was hell."
It kind of feels like...
"I want you to know," he thinks to himself, "I wanted to say these things but just...". The line on the other end of the receiver clicks. The cell phone is flipped shut and shuffled away into a pocket somewhere. The idea is that if you reach the ultimate low, if you ultimately don't care about yourself at all, someone will come along who cares about you more than you do.
The phone vibrates in his pocket, he's had enough of that particular emotion tonight. He sits down on the curb, the street hot and dirty. There's nowhere to hide from the heat, so you might as well try to enjoy it. The only relief you get from the sun is when darkness fills the world, when night falls on the city. Even with the sun hiding on the other side of the earth there's still not much change. A couple degrees here or there but you have to be thankful for something. Looking down at his shoes and the scars left on the asphalt by someone else, someone sitting exactly in this spot. Someone who was no doubt, going through something at least similar.
The sun heats the tar filling the cracks; unknowingly he's put his shoe into the middle of this mess. The shoe comes out but but it takes some forcing. When his foot finally does lift there's an exact imprint of the sole of his shoe left in the melted tar. He knows it won't last, but the idea that he's left his mark, even if it as something as small as this is the something positive he needs to just keep breathing. He wonders if this is a metaphor for the human condition. Everyone leaving temporary footprints in everyone else's tar. Staying just long enough to be noticed before the heat of the sun returns everything to how it was before you put your foot there.
The phone vibrates in his pocket, he's had enough of that particular emotion tonight. He sits down on the curb, the street hot and dirty. There's nowhere to hide from the heat, so you might as well try to enjoy it. The only relief you get from the sun is when darkness fills the world, when night falls on the city. Even with the sun hiding on the other side of the earth there's still not much change. A couple degrees here or there but you have to be thankful for something. Looking down at his shoes and the scars left on the asphalt by someone else, someone sitting exactly in this spot. Someone who was no doubt, going through something at least similar.
The sun heats the tar filling the cracks; unknowingly he's put his shoe into the middle of this mess. The shoe comes out but but it takes some forcing. When his foot finally does lift there's an exact imprint of the sole of his shoe left in the melted tar. He knows it won't last, but the idea that he's left his mark, even if it as something as small as this is the something positive he needs to just keep breathing. He wonders if this is a metaphor for the human condition. Everyone leaving temporary footprints in everyone else's tar. Staying just long enough to be noticed before the heat of the sun returns everything to how it was before you put your foot there.
The flutter of possibility
He nervously smoked a cigarette at dusk, before he had to take a shower at his brother's home. The ground beneath him is black asphalt, covered in leaves and cigarette butts, some of them his, some of them not. Leaning on the hood of his car he lifts his hand and inhales, holds, and exhales. The smoke thinning and finally disappearing as it is carried by the light breeze. Thoughts about the girl he was going to see soon, the possibility, the hope, something pure.
The strange coincidence crosses his mind that the date would occur almost exactly a year after the last girl had left him. He shakes the idea off his mind and returns to happier things. Possibility. Hope. Something... pure. The cigarette sparks and bounces on the asphalt before being smothered under the sole of his shoe. He paces the parking lot, continuing to think about the girl. He thinks about the life he lives, how it won't mesh with hers, but the attraction is undeniable. It's funny that this is even happening, being that not just five or six weeks ago she was in a strange relationship, all her own. A boyfriend who was technically an ex, but was still around constantly and also had a problem with her seeing other guys. This being the reason it hadn't happened back then, but that wouldn't be entirely true. They had already gone on a date, but there was the ex, something that neither wanted to really deal with, or talk about.
He glances at his phone, the time he counted on having had slipped from him. Walking quickly across the parking lot to the condo's front door he brought out the ring of keys from his pocket. Gently jingling the three or four rings attached to the main ring, he notices that there is actually only one key. He laughs, wondering who thought they needed to have so many rings for one lonesome key. Entering the condo he notices his brother's roommate sitting on the couch, watching TV, probably the history channel or something. He climbs the stairs to the second floor.
To his left his brother Chris's room, to the right the bathroom and shower. He strips, putting his left foot in the shower he remembers that he should probably shave. Standing there, naked, he shaves his face. There's something strange and unfamiliar about standing in front of a mirror completely nude, shaving. The shower is hot and refreshing, the familiar smell of the fragrances in the shampoo, soap, body wash. Smells he was pretty sure had just been recycled since the beginning of time. Labeled as things familiar or comforting. Exiting he towels himself dry and walks into the room down across the hall. Pulling on his jeans and pulling his white undershirt over his head, then the olive green t-shirt. His skin still moist from the heat of the shower, a mix of water evaporating and sweat. The phone on the dresser blinks and vibrates, the flutter of butterflies in his stomach.
The strange coincidence crosses his mind that the date would occur almost exactly a year after the last girl had left him. He shakes the idea off his mind and returns to happier things. Possibility. Hope. Something... pure. The cigarette sparks and bounces on the asphalt before being smothered under the sole of his shoe. He paces the parking lot, continuing to think about the girl. He thinks about the life he lives, how it won't mesh with hers, but the attraction is undeniable. It's funny that this is even happening, being that not just five or six weeks ago she was in a strange relationship, all her own. A boyfriend who was technically an ex, but was still around constantly and also had a problem with her seeing other guys. This being the reason it hadn't happened back then, but that wouldn't be entirely true. They had already gone on a date, but there was the ex, something that neither wanted to really deal with, or talk about.
He glances at his phone, the time he counted on having had slipped from him. Walking quickly across the parking lot to the condo's front door he brought out the ring of keys from his pocket. Gently jingling the three or four rings attached to the main ring, he notices that there is actually only one key. He laughs, wondering who thought they needed to have so many rings for one lonesome key. Entering the condo he notices his brother's roommate sitting on the couch, watching TV, probably the history channel or something. He climbs the stairs to the second floor.
To his left his brother Chris's room, to the right the bathroom and shower. He strips, putting his left foot in the shower he remembers that he should probably shave. Standing there, naked, he shaves his face. There's something strange and unfamiliar about standing in front of a mirror completely nude, shaving. The shower is hot and refreshing, the familiar smell of the fragrances in the shampoo, soap, body wash. Smells he was pretty sure had just been recycled since the beginning of time. Labeled as things familiar or comforting. Exiting he towels himself dry and walks into the room down across the hall. Pulling on his jeans and pulling his white undershirt over his head, then the olive green t-shirt. His skin still moist from the heat of the shower, a mix of water evaporating and sweat. The phone on the dresser blinks and vibrates, the flutter of butterflies in his stomach.
Faith?
Thoughts spill from my mind, in an unstoppable ramble. The one constant that is always at the front of all these, or at least somehow connected to all of them? "What comes next?" Where does my consciousness go? My body dies, but does everything that is me go with it? All the things I've learned, pondered, connected, and disconnected in my soul. Is this really all there is? The idea of God has always seemed silly to me, but not in a laughable silliness. Something like the way you laughed at your friends when you were younger for saying that they were superheros, believing that if they so desired, they could do all the things they imagined, with the flick of a switch. As I get older, I find that this thought isn't so much silly, as terrifying. I've always had 'the feeling' that there was something bigger, unknowable, and untouchable out there. Nothing good or evil, just a force that was somehow connected to every living being. Necessity? Maybe, maybe not. Faith? Not likely, but just as plausible.
The only way I can describe what this feeling might be or who, depending on what you believe, is the way it feels to see a loved one that you haven't seen in years; or the way the first day of spring feels after a long winter. Hands shaking nervously, happiness seeming to emanate from inside you, your heart beating faster and faster as this loved one's face comes into focus or; warmth washing over your pale and cold skin, unable to keep the smile from crossing your face.
The only way I can describe what this feeling might be or who, depending on what you believe, is the way it feels to see a loved one that you haven't seen in years; or the way the first day of spring feels after a long winter. Hands shaking nervously, happiness seeming to emanate from inside you, your heart beating faster and faster as this loved one's face comes into focus or; warmth washing over your pale and cold skin, unable to keep the smile from crossing your face.
Childhood
The night comes smooth and quickly, the cement beneath your feet still warm from the sun's love and kindness. Pebbles, sticks, and leaves stick to the soles of your feet. The sharp pain of these reminding you that you're still alive, able to feel, even if it is pain. Walking around the side of the red brick, two level home, to find an average neighborhood, full of people stuck together; forced to live out their lives near one another. Like a flower who grows under a tree, who's only misfortune was that the wind didn't blow it's seed far enough, just to see the sun. People sitting in their yards, playing with their children, enjoying the cool of the evening and the breeze who's temperature has dropped to something tolerable, even soothing. The blades of grass massaging their weary feet, moist and cool. Children running and playing, throwing toys and laughing. Knowing joy without pain; happiness without sadness. Their parents looking on, staring with wonder at the miracle known as childhood. Joy without pain, happiness without sadness. Envy fills their hearts, but never crossing to resent their flesh and blood. The one phrase crossing their mind without them knowing, subconsciously repeated over and over? The one thing that I dare say comforts them?
"They'll know it soon enough."
"They'll know it soon enough."
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