I need to buy more blazers, more sport coats. I feel comfortable, fashionable if you will, sporting a fedora, blazer/sport coat with vintage tee, worn blue jeans and a tattered pair of Chuck Taylors.
I purchase all my blazers/sport coats and tees at thrift shops.
I'm sure many of the coats have been donated by blue haired widows after clearing the closets of their dead husbands. Those tiny rooms reeking of moth balls and leather, packed with clothing wrapped in dry cleaners' plastics. Plaids from the '50s. Fabrics from the '60s. Pristine polyesters from the '70s. A black pair of leather shoes worn once to a mother's funeral. The trench coat of an ambassador. Various ties for special occasions: meetings, holidays and more funerals. Artifacts worn by beings from another time.
I scour racks searching for a good fit. Some of the jackets have retained their jet fresh scent. Others emanate old flesh and dead cologne. A stray hair is occasionally found, usually gray and thin.
The pockets are almost always empty; however, many months ago hidden inside the satin lined breast pocket of a blazer (circa 1974) I discovered a worn and tattered black and white photo of a woman, beehive hairdo, thick wire rimmed glasses. She was oddly beautiful.
The name Claire seemed appropriate.
Over the thrift store speakers The Carpenters' "We've Only Just Begun" played softly. Poor Karen Carpenter. Such a delicate voice. And that emaciated figure of bone and skin. It all made the song so bittersweet.
A sound.
A voice.
Trapped in time.
And in my hand was "Claire," black and white.
Trapped in a moment. Captured. Secured.
A high school sweetheart. A young wife perhaps. Now nameless and left to suffocate in the blackness of a satin lined pocket, carelessly packed on a rack of fabrics. Tags. Prices. Memories expired.
I sat the blazer aside and held "Claire" in my hand. I was frozen with her, trapped in the lack of color like some strange time capsule. I traveled and there she was mute yet tangible.
"Where are you? Are you still alive? Is your body cracked with age and time and locked away in some nursing home? Are the nurses treating you well?
"Once upon a time you were a beautiful creature molded from beauty's model and some young man, a strapping young soldier preparing for war, kissed your precious lips one final time and bade farewell while flags flashed and tears glistened. 'I'll be back before you know it, baby,' that's what he said, didn't he? And you couldn't let go of him, you just couldn't. Trumpets blared the sounds of America, Freedom, War and Courage, and you knew, you knew, you just knew..."
And as I stared at "Claire" somewhere, not from the shitty thrift store speakers, not from some passing shopper, but somewhere I heard a voice, the voice of a young woman say, "Months later his body would explode, bits were recovered, and days, weeks, I don't know, time passed and a flag draped coffin, a coffin--mostly empty--returned, he came back home. The newspaper said his body was returned to 'The Red, The White, The Blue and The Indebted.'"
Some brutal advertisement blasted over the thrift store speakers promoting Senior Sundays and her voice disappeared.
"Claire," something tells me you've passed too.
And some believe you're with him again.
Somewhere high above all of this.
Hand in hand.
Floating in white.
His body whole. Undamaged.
Your wrinkles gone. Your face a blazing brilliance of color.
I gently return your face to the satin lined pocket. I try the blazer on. The fit is perfect. It smells nice. It smells clean. The color is as gray as the sky outside. A beautiful sky.
I approach the cashier and pull some wrinkled bills from my pocket. The cashier punches some buttons, a tiny bells rings, a total is announced and I hand her my money.
"One dollar and thirty-seven cents is your change, sir. Have a nice day."
"Thank you. I think I will. It looks like rain."
mc
05 December 2006
04 December 2006
safety
In fields of broken glass and shattered love I crawled on broken knees searching for the pit where bodies bleed to become invisible and join the void of permanence.
I'm safe now.
I'm safe now.
And creativity is crawling.
mc
I'm safe now.
I'm safe now.
And creativity is crawling.
mc
02 December 2006
29 November 2006
sometimes
She doesn't want words.
She doesn't want consolation.
She just wants to fuck.
A simple transaction. An operation free of entanglement.
I'll go inside. Outside. Multiple explosions will happen. Internally. Externally.
Dark bodies will shift and sweltry mouths will sound, poetry attempting to compose stanzas, some kind of escape.
My three year "friendship" with Julie has never been built on trust or companionship. Our association has always been based on easy sex, cocaine, booze, petty theft, you name it. You know, the quality components of a "friendship."
I want words.
I want change.
I want consolation, at least conversation.
I need to speak about the aircrafts crashing inside my head. Passengers are bleeding, helpless. And the oxygen masks are absent.
I want to assist them. I want to kill myself.
A simple transaction. An operation free of entanglement.
A cold black pistol sleeps under my driver's seat waiting to rise from its slumber and sing the sweetest song of salvation.
An explosion could happen. Internally. Externally. Planes crash all the time.
And Julie -- she just wants to fuck.
She's a doll and she has that look in her eyes -- again. Fire. Lust. That undeniable look like a XXX Fuck Goddess ("She could be yours").
She tells me to pull down my pants while she does things with her clothes: she's unbuttoning things, loosening straps, rubbing her pussy. It's all a blur.
My head is a garbled broadcast of psychiatric medications (I'm trying to make changes in my life), banks are flooded with man made chemicals and somewhere back home, where it's nice and safe, is a sheet from the pharmacy: SIDE EFFECTS: IMPOTENCE, CHANGE IN SEXUAL DRIVE. Back home everything is quiet and warm. Conan O'Brien is beginning his opening monologue and people are laughing; people are comfortable; Max Weinberg acknowledges a wisecrack and attacks the drums, his hands move like magic wands, remarkable.
Julie speaks like a 900-number girl, so sexy, she says, "Pull down your pants, baby. You know our routine. I'm high and I want to taste your cock. C'mon baby. Let me see it. I want it. Now."
I know this won't work and now isn't the time for a "I've seen the light" bullshit speech, either. My entire body is shaking. I'm killing time but time is not to be had.
I say, "Julie, look, you don't understand what's going on. I'm, I'm a mannequin and the plastics in my head make my useful parts useless. You, you don't understand."
"Wow. What are you on? You'll have to give me a taste but first lets see what my hot little mouth can do. You know what I can do, baby. I'll give until you're empty and all used up -- and then I'll come back for more and make you give it to me, baby. So c'mon. What are you waiting for? I'm so fucking horny."
With sweaty hands I unbuckle my belt.
With shaky fingers I unbutton my jeans.
I pull down my blue denim and black underwear exposing the dead machine.
Under 1000 kilowatts of burning bulbs there is nothing to hide. My eyes dart like a thief looking for a quick escape, but the exits are zero in number. Her thin body is on top of me. On top of it. That dead thing. Lifeless. Useless. So fucking pathetic.
And she's so amazing. A XXX Fuck Goddess and "She could be yours" but not tonight. You don't work. You're a vain accessory in the dimly lit interior of an automobile.
I hear a siren: The sound of captivity. I'm hoping for a pair of cold silver handcuffs, iron bars, a mug shot and a piss stained floor for a bed.
I hear a siren: The sound of safety. I'm hoping for clean white sheets, a warm safe room, an IV of clean fluids and supervision hours 24 in number.
Some method of escape.
But the sound dissipates.
Her desirous eyes turn away from my lifeless cock and focus on the only sign of life: a rapid thumping lashing from the center of my bare chest.
Like a ghost she slowly lowers herself on top of my trembling body and places her lips near my ear and whispers something, something I need to hear. Like a feather to my cracked lips she kisses me once, twice, again and again.
She quietly pulls the sleeping beauty from under the driver's seat and checks the cold chamber -- two tiny rockets silently wait.
She holds onto me.
I hold onto her.
And time becomes irrelevant.
A simple transaction.
An operation free of entanglement.
We don't want words.
We don't want consolation.
Just some kind of escape.
The sun steadily raises over the frozen city.
Our body temperatures slowly drop.
And snow begins to fall.
mc
She doesn't want consolation.
She just wants to fuck.
A simple transaction. An operation free of entanglement.
I'll go inside. Outside. Multiple explosions will happen. Internally. Externally.
Dark bodies will shift and sweltry mouths will sound, poetry attempting to compose stanzas, some kind of escape.
My three year "friendship" with Julie has never been built on trust or companionship. Our association has always been based on easy sex, cocaine, booze, petty theft, you name it. You know, the quality components of a "friendship."
I want words.
I want change.
I want consolation, at least conversation.
I need to speak about the aircrafts crashing inside my head. Passengers are bleeding, helpless. And the oxygen masks are absent.
I want to assist them. I want to kill myself.
A simple transaction. An operation free of entanglement.
A cold black pistol sleeps under my driver's seat waiting to rise from its slumber and sing the sweetest song of salvation.
An explosion could happen. Internally. Externally. Planes crash all the time.
And Julie -- she just wants to fuck.
She's a doll and she has that look in her eyes -- again. Fire. Lust. That undeniable look like a XXX Fuck Goddess ("She could be yours").
She tells me to pull down my pants while she does things with her clothes: she's unbuttoning things, loosening straps, rubbing her pussy. It's all a blur.
My head is a garbled broadcast of psychiatric medications (I'm trying to make changes in my life), banks are flooded with man made chemicals and somewhere back home, where it's nice and safe, is a sheet from the pharmacy: SIDE EFFECTS: IMPOTENCE, CHANGE IN SEXUAL DRIVE. Back home everything is quiet and warm. Conan O'Brien is beginning his opening monologue and people are laughing; people are comfortable; Max Weinberg acknowledges a wisecrack and attacks the drums, his hands move like magic wands, remarkable.
Julie speaks like a 900-number girl, so sexy, she says, "Pull down your pants, baby. You know our routine. I'm high and I want to taste your cock. C'mon baby. Let me see it. I want it. Now."
I know this won't work and now isn't the time for a "I've seen the light" bullshit speech, either. My entire body is shaking. I'm killing time but time is not to be had.
I say, "Julie, look, you don't understand what's going on. I'm, I'm a mannequin and the plastics in my head make my useful parts useless. You, you don't understand."
"Wow. What are you on? You'll have to give me a taste but first lets see what my hot little mouth can do. You know what I can do, baby. I'll give until you're empty and all used up -- and then I'll come back for more and make you give it to me, baby. So c'mon. What are you waiting for? I'm so fucking horny."
With sweaty hands I unbuckle my belt.
With shaky fingers I unbutton my jeans.
I pull down my blue denim and black underwear exposing the dead machine.
Under 1000 kilowatts of burning bulbs there is nothing to hide. My eyes dart like a thief looking for a quick escape, but the exits are zero in number. Her thin body is on top of me. On top of it. That dead thing. Lifeless. Useless. So fucking pathetic.
And she's so amazing. A XXX Fuck Goddess and "She could be yours" but not tonight. You don't work. You're a vain accessory in the dimly lit interior of an automobile.
I hear a siren: The sound of captivity. I'm hoping for a pair of cold silver handcuffs, iron bars, a mug shot and a piss stained floor for a bed.
I hear a siren: The sound of safety. I'm hoping for clean white sheets, a warm safe room, an IV of clean fluids and supervision hours 24 in number.
Some method of escape.
But the sound dissipates.
Her desirous eyes turn away from my lifeless cock and focus on the only sign of life: a rapid thumping lashing from the center of my bare chest.
Like a ghost she slowly lowers herself on top of my trembling body and places her lips near my ear and whispers something, something I need to hear. Like a feather to my cracked lips she kisses me once, twice, again and again.
She quietly pulls the sleeping beauty from under the driver's seat and checks the cold chamber -- two tiny rockets silently wait.
She holds onto me.
I hold onto her.
And time becomes irrelevant.
A simple transaction.
An operation free of entanglement.
We don't want words.
We don't want consolation.
Just some kind of escape.
The sun steadily raises over the frozen city.
Our body temperatures slowly drop.
And snow begins to fall.
mc
27 November 2006
reset
I'm unsure how to begin this post. I know this post will be a response, or a retraction of sorts, to "an analysis."
The "target" of that post responded with the following:
Anonymous said...
Please understand what it's like to be me. Everything from me is an "attack" in your eyes, and I never do ANY right.
"You never cared about me anyway."
"Sorry I'm not worthy of your time."
Followed by an apology 5 minutes later? I can't and WON'T deal with bullshit accusations all the time, and you throw out a few every time we talk, even though I try to convince you otherwise.
Go ahead and run my name through the dirt if it makes you feel better, but rest assured I'd never do the same to you.
I hope you get better.
I'm trying to formulate a response to her comments but the only word that comes to mind is "shame." I can't deny a single word she wrote. And I can't explain my inexplicable behavior.
Before I began this post there were so many things I wanted to express.
Bitterness.
Anger.
Remorse.
And now I'm staring at those three nouns, thinking of Anonymous's face and I'm wondering "why?" I have absolutely no right to be bitter or angry, none whatsoever. But I am remorseful.
I wish I could express how repentant I am for intruding into your life. I had no right. You were involved with J, I trespassed and the rest, as they say, is history.
For your sake, I wish we never met. The trust issue between you and J would be absent and you wouldn't have to deal with my petty problems; I'm sure your life would be much smoother and less stressful. I, however, enjoyed every moment of your company.
Christ. This is mind numbing drivel. I'm tracing words of smoke attempting to contrive a cognitive and cohesive story, not even a story but a series of events, a sequence of episodes that my mind has convinced me holds value and meaning. The mind convinces man, but what convinces the mind?
[[R I N G I N G - P H O N E ]]
I just spoke to Anonymous on the telephone and everything is cool. I guess that's how German chicks roll.
mc
The "target" of that post responded with the following:
Anonymous said...
Please understand what it's like to be me. Everything from me is an "attack" in your eyes, and I never do ANY right.
"You never cared about me anyway."
"Sorry I'm not worthy of your time."
Followed by an apology 5 minutes later? I can't and WON'T deal with bullshit accusations all the time, and you throw out a few every time we talk, even though I try to convince you otherwise.
Go ahead and run my name through the dirt if it makes you feel better, but rest assured I'd never do the same to you.
I hope you get better.
I'm trying to formulate a response to her comments but the only word that comes to mind is "shame." I can't deny a single word she wrote. And I can't explain my inexplicable behavior.
Before I began this post there were so many things I wanted to express.
Bitterness.
Anger.
Remorse.
And now I'm staring at those three nouns, thinking of Anonymous's face and I'm wondering "why?" I have absolutely no right to be bitter or angry, none whatsoever. But I am remorseful.
I wish I could express how repentant I am for intruding into your life. I had no right. You were involved with J, I trespassed and the rest, as they say, is history.
For your sake, I wish we never met. The trust issue between you and J would be absent and you wouldn't have to deal with my petty problems; I'm sure your life would be much smoother and less stressful. I, however, enjoyed every moment of your company.
Christ. This is mind numbing drivel. I'm tracing words of smoke attempting to contrive a cognitive and cohesive story, not even a story but a series of events, a sequence of episodes that my mind has convinced me holds value and meaning. The mind convinces man, but what convinces the mind?
[[R I N G I N G - P H O N E ]]
I just spoke to Anonymous on the telephone and everything is cool. I guess that's how German chicks roll.
mc
an analysis
I should take my medications tonight but I won't be swallowing the two little pills. No.
Highly irritable.
Erratic electricity circulates and the sound rings in my ears. Insects have injected themselves under my cold skin.
Masticate my salty flesh.
Regurgitate those infected proteins and let me swim, sink and succumb into that murky sludge.
She disguised herself as a daffodil of kindness and peace.
Such a wretched whore.
My sickness is an inconvenient complication not worthy of her precious time -- a fucking text message.
Devious cunts crawl under guises of smiles and goodwill. Don't believe their faces. Their words. Don't believe anyone.
Devices drive the corrupt and they will not cease until you have become a wrecked and charred soul: used up, emptied of faith, trust, all those sacred components crucial to establishing meaningful relationships and friendships. You'll become a "ridiculous" object riddled with "mood swings."
Thank you for your faultless analysis, Perfection.
mc
Highly irritable.
Erratic electricity circulates and the sound rings in my ears. Insects have injected themselves under my cold skin.
Masticate my salty flesh.
Regurgitate those infected proteins and let me swim, sink and succumb into that murky sludge.
She disguised herself as a daffodil of kindness and peace.
Such a wretched whore.
My sickness is an inconvenient complication not worthy of her precious time -- a fucking text message.
Devious cunts crawl under guises of smiles and goodwill. Don't believe their faces. Their words. Don't believe anyone.
Devices drive the corrupt and they will not cease until you have become a wrecked and charred soul: used up, emptied of faith, trust, all those sacred components crucial to establishing meaningful relationships and friendships. You'll become a "ridiculous" object riddled with "mood swings."
Thank you for your faultless analysis, Perfection.
mc
26 November 2006
peace
World peace begins here:
That is some delicious pudding. Damn. (And yes, I have eaten an entire tub in one seating while watching Oprah. Okay, the Oprah remark was a joke.)
mc
"The Chocolate Pudding King"
That is some delicious pudding. Damn. (And yes, I have eaten an entire tub in one seating while watching Oprah. Okay, the Oprah remark was a joke.)
mc
"The Chocolate Pudding King"
chocolate pudding is the greatest -- ever
I would like to apologize to my fellow reader(s?) for the lack of updates. mc's recent ::cringe:: therapy (yes, this treatment includes pharmaceuticals) has produced unexpectedly wonderful results; I'm doing much better. To use an old cliche: I'm feeling like my old self again. The creative stroke is back and "optimism" is no longer a foreign concept.
I hope to add another post tomorrow (Sunday) or shortly thereafter. Until then...
mc
"The Chocolate Pudding King" (Kroger has 2/$5.00; you better jump on that shit.)
I hope to add another post tomorrow (Sunday) or shortly thereafter. Until then...
mc
"The Chocolate Pudding King" (Kroger has 2/$5.00; you better jump on that shit.)
20 November 2006
comfort
"I miss the comfort in being sad."
Nirvana "Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge on Seattle" (29 December 1993, San Diego)
Nirvana "Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge on Seattle" (29 December 1993, San Diego)
morning
This morning I woke up feeling tired, defeated and angry. Initially this post was going to be about the subject of my anger, but I've decided to let those harsh feelings subside. What's the point? If certain people choose to maintain friendships for charitable purposes then fuck them. I have my fair share of problems but sustaining token relationships isn't one of them.
I see Dr. F. tomorrow, and the appointment couldn't come soon enough. The bad feelings are returning. The desire to escape is strong, and the futility of every passing second is irrefutable.
I dread Thursday, Thanksgiving. Christ. I love my family but holidays are usually anything but enjoyable. When your parents are divorced you're faced with the agonizing mathematics of love and appreciation. "Okay, I'll spend four hours at mom's and then three hours a dad's. But wait, is four hours with mom too much? And what about three whole hours with dad? Christ." Hopefully there will be plenty of alcohol on hand. Booze tends to make family time easier to swallow, so to speak; however, I look forward to spending some time with sister and Austin, my nephew.
Christ.
mc
I see Dr. F. tomorrow, and the appointment couldn't come soon enough. The bad feelings are returning. The desire to escape is strong, and the futility of every passing second is irrefutable.
I dread Thursday, Thanksgiving. Christ. I love my family but holidays are usually anything but enjoyable. When your parents are divorced you're faced with the agonizing mathematics of love and appreciation. "Okay, I'll spend four hours at mom's and then three hours a dad's. But wait, is four hours with mom too much? And what about three whole hours with dad? Christ." Hopefully there will be plenty of alcohol on hand. Booze tends to make family time easier to swallow, so to speak; however, I look forward to spending some time with sister and Austin, my nephew.
Christ.
mc
14 November 2006
13 November 2006
cracks
Upon hearing of my adverse side effects (slurred speech, memory distortion, confusion and unsteady walk) to Lithium, Dr. F instructed me to cease consumption. She did, however, tell me to continue taking Klonopin for my anxiety/paranoia.
Apparently an alternative treatment for my bi-polar disorder will be explored at my next appointment, one week from tomorrow. Earlier this evening I came home from work and for 10-15 minutes balled like a baby, sobbing uncontrollably; the fear was back and I wasn't sure what to do, wasn't sure what was around the corner... A soul curdling fear. Now, typing this, things are quiet and relatively peaceful.
As my condition progressively worsens, I'm beginning to consider some kind of hospitalization. The reality in my head the reality of "the real world" is becoming harder to discern. Hospitalization would be the last resort, and unless things improve dramatically -- and soon -- that could be my only refuge.
My sister gave birth to a bouncing baby boy yesterday. I should be elated. Proud. But that reality feels a million miles away. And I'm here, seemingly unaffected by it all -- and everything else.
mc (Thanks, M)
12 November 2006
sunday
Sister gave birth to a healthy baby boy today, and I'm an uncle.
This weekend has been a blur of distorted time lines, slurred speech and other troubling side effects. I've contemplated going to the hospital but I think I'll call Dr. F. Monday morning. Something isn't right.
Fucking meds.
mc
This weekend has been a blur of distorted time lines, slurred speech and other troubling side effects. I've contemplated going to the hospital but I think I'll call Dr. F. Monday morning. Something isn't right.
Fucking meds.
mc
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
