Thursday, March 31, 2011

Second Cup

'it's funny when a bum say's no to money" she told him, standing in front of the window watching the homeless man reject the help of others. "He's been there for three days!" she announced. "I know cause so have I." She had been there for several days, watching the man, listening to his protest. "I can't stand this countries perception of its self." He would sing to anyone willing to listen and scream to those who had the audacity to try to avoid him. "Recoil then." he would yell, "runaway!" they would run." Cowboy" he'd say. "The tip of my toung is a weapon, and the fact the you're runnin means I'm winning." He was right. He was winning and she knew it. He was sitting on the corner of 101st and jasper.  "There is no one there to listen" she would say to herself when the others had gone out for their mid day coffee. She would watch them cross the road, head towards the coffee shop, avoid him at all costs. It was always such an experience, brilliant the way he was always able to, pounce, laugh, the raid was a rush for him. "Fucking Bum" they would yell. "Come on you asshole, come get your money then." they'd bait. He listened, she watched knowing that he was in for it, alone out there against their money, "you're high honey!" she could hear their voices from the twenty fifth story. She was waiting, sold, looking for the same old good time as those nasty co-workers down there. She liked to watch him handing that bum the money, she could see him asking "let's see it, let's see you kick a car." The bum was funny that way, she could remember them talking bout their encounters and the economy. "Coffee break," he'd state. They would all split. She watched them too, his yes men. "Do it!" their voices echoed through her mind, watching them, "harassment that's all it is" she'd say. "Kick it!" all of them, a company, a corporation, all of them throwing money, yelling. "Come'on kick a car or a bus, look" pointing they' yelled "TAXI". She stood there watching them. The bum turned and kicked. She could here the sound of his skull hitting the windshield, she didn't actually see it, she just knew it the way he he saw it, he dropped the money. It was strange, almost surreal, the way they all just walked away.Their once fists full of money rushing to get a

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

feed me

"Let's just cook it before it goes bad" he told her
"yeah, you're right!" she said, even though she didn't want to.
"What ya wanna do with it?"she asked.
'"Make Tacos!"he said, then he thought about  frying the meat, the beef. She hated beef, he hated her. They got along great. The meat was rank. She cooked it anyway, the way she had done it before.
 "Baby I'm gonna add lots of spice" she said,
"He ate it the last time" she said to herself.
"What?" he asked
"I'm hungry" she said.

Monday, March 28, 2011

empty, or drive cab, and fall in love

the facts come like this, I can t really speak so I just mumble. People can hear me from across the yard but they don't have a clue what it is I'm saying. It's really funny. they stare at me in amazement. All I really want to do is speak to people, speak to them. All I really want to say is that intellect has nothing to do with how smart you are. No it's more about how open you are to the idea that you're an idiot. O.k yes I'm the first to admit it "I'm a fucking imbecile!" It's a new concept. But I've been trying to talk to others using it, really I'm kind of sad. But so is life, the life of an idiot trying to tell others, who think they have a brain that they don't. that the smartest people are the ones who are

she never did again

"No I knew what they were talking about right from the start" he argued his understanding. "You always say you understand what's going on, even when you don't!" Her voice rang hard and true in his ears, he knew she understood him. He was see through. He loved her for exposing him. "No I knew!" he admitted openly, knowing it was a lie. She gasped, not expecting the blatancy in his blasphemy. "That's not true, I told you.. last night, admit it!" she said, angry confused, but also feeling the situation was beginning to bear a hilariousness. It was a blow to her, he never lied, and here in front of the board he diluted her opposition. It was a blow and it hurt. She had expected him to back down, give her the position. He wasn't going to make it, they both knew that from the start. At least she thought so. "You know where I stand on the position, I've been standing there the whole time." he said. She finally understood. In her amazement, in her unwillingness to believe that he was actually being honest with her from the start she underestimated him. He was in love with her, he knew her, he understood her ruthlessness. "You just broke my heart" he said. All the member of the jury present. The two were facing each other. There was a tension in the air, that corroded her, she felt smothered, "I have..I have...I have the money to back my claim." she was lying. It made them both laugh. Everyone felt the room get smaller, as he regained his climate, he watched her world turn. She was alone now. The crowd was won over with his simple element, his tone and pride. She was shadowed in emotion, tears in her eyes. The moment he turned, fleeting in lies, her ruthlessness was forgiven, cause her heart was drown. "you were right!" He had said to her the night before. "Never say no!"

Sunday, March 27, 2011

‘Always Repent! Repent!’

 In pursuit of fulfilling his dream of sailing along the river that un coils through Africa like a snake into the yet to be colonized heart of the continent, Marlow is introduced to the voice of Mr. Kurtz, a voice who’s influence over the land turns our narrators image of adventure into a nightmare.  Marlow’s initial impressions of Mr. Kurtz are very good; they come from several high-ranking officials stationed along the way. As the journey toward the heart of Africa progresses Marlow begins to realize that Mr. Kurtz has left a lasting impression on many of the people acting under him. When confronted with the possibility of having lost his opportunity to speak with Mr. Kurtz, Marlow breaks down and realizes that a conversation with him is the substance of his persistent progress into the heart of the continent.  Until Marlow realizes the truth behind the way Mr. Kurtz sees himself amongst humans in general, his impressions of the man are good, but after Marlow’s realization that in fact Mr. Kurtz has given into a world with no restraints he decides that Kurtz is in fact hollow at the core; however, Marlow still insists that Kurtz is remarkable.

            Marlow’s first impression of Mr. Kurtz comes from the slickly dressed accountant at the first destination, the station “this scene of inhabited devastation” (243 Conrad). This man, an administrative force along the ivory trail introduces Marlow to Kurtz by remarking that he is “a first class agent” (246 Conrad).  The man then proceeds to admit to Marlow that Kurtz is a “remarkable person…Sends in as much ivory as all the others put together…”(246 Conrad) This intrigues our protagonist, but fortunately for him the deterrents presented along his journey force him to keep his mind on the business of successfully overcoming all obstacles. Marlow never really gets a moment to think about what’s going on around him. Any reflections he does seem to make at this point of his trip are overshadowed by the ever-present sound of Kurtz. This drives Marlow forward in the direction of the dark depths of the thick African Jungle.  
I felt how big, confoundedly big, was that thing that couldn’t talk, and perhaps was deaf as well. What was in there? I could see a little ivory coming out from there, and I had heard Mr. Kurtz was in there…He was just a word for me, I did not see the man in the name any more than you do…It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream” (Conrad 253).
As Marlow progresses up river he begins to encounter more of the incoherent chaos associated with the voice containing the tone of a mad man.

             The notes laid down by the voice of Kurtz seem to leave lasting impressions on the minds of the enlisted, high and low ranking, officials of the company.  What seems to resonate through the minds of these officials is a pride in the pursuit of success in achieving rank. They go about their existence trying to outsmart one another. Marlow realizes the emptiness of it all while over hearing the manager’s nephew discuss the stability of his status in the company with his uncle.
“Certainly, ‘grunted the other; ’get him hanged! Why not? Anything-anything can be done in this county. That’s what I say; nobody here, you understand, here, can endanger your position. And why? You stand the climate-you outlast them all. The danger is in Europe;”(257 Conrad).
The conversation brings Marlow to see light on the subject of the lack of restraint in achieving goals in Africa. Kurtz is also brought up in the conversation between the power hungry nephew and his uncle; the depiction of Kurtz by the two leaves Marlow debating what “that man” (257 Conrad) refereeing to Kurtz is up to.
It was a distinct glimpse: the dug-out four paddling savages, and the lone white man turning his back suddenly on the headquarters, on relief, on thoughts of home—perhaps; setting his face towards the depths of the wilderness, towards his empty and desolate station. (257 Conrad)
Kurtz seems to have created a hierarchy along the river, a dark shadow cast from the heart of the ivory trade, in the depths of the Jungle, shedding an inhuman nasty gloom over the poor souls trying to survive their journey to retrieve him.

            Marlow is witness to all these obscurities along the river and through the crowdedness of anarchy and chaos he realizes that all he wants to do is speak to Kurtz.
I couldn’t have been more disgusted if I had traveled all this way for the sole purpose of talking with Mr. Kurtz. Talking with… I flung one shoe overboard, and became aware that was exactly what I been looking forward to- a talk with Kurtz.” (269 Conrad)
Even though by this point Marlow is aware that Kurtz has “ collected, bartered, swindled, or stolen more ivory than all the other agents together” (269 Conrad) our narrator is still obsessed with Kurtz’s being “a gifted creature” (269 Conrad). Kurtz’s gifts according to Marlow being with his ability to bewilder, illuminate using “the pulsating stream of light, or the deceitful flow from the hear of the impenetrable darkness.” Marlow can see past the impurities left behind by Kurtz, he realizes that it wasn’t all good deeds that brought Kurtz to his position, but it was his “gift of expression” that set Kurtz apart. From there on in Marlow’s aspirations are focused on finding Kurtz for a simple chat and some reflection.

            The purpose of Kurtz’s journey into the unmapped heart of Africa is to collect and to send back as much ivory as possible. Marlow gradually realizes the methods usually employed (by Europeans) become obsolete in a place so foreign. “Mr. Kurtz was a universal genius,’ but even a genius would find it easier to work with ‘adequate tools—intelligent men” (254 Conrad). Regression or the acceptance of any lag was obviously not an option in his travels; Kurtz avoided delay at all costs and continued the forward motion never losing his momentum. Marlow is used by Conrad to portray a reflection of Kurtz’s point of view through the eyes of a neutral narrator shadowing the aftermath of a lunatic’s unstoppable expedition toward satisfaction. Marlow experiences the momentum, the motion forward, an inertia carved into darkness by a member of the first class, an elite. The narrator is projected into the fire, so to speak, by a back draft of the consequences caused by Kurtz’s ability to remain proficient through a mode of breakdown. Marlow quickly realizes Kurtz’s advancements come at the high price of moral indignity. 
There were no practical hints to interrupt the magic current of phrases, unless a kind of note at the foot of the last page, scrawled evidently much later, in an unsteady hand, may be regarded as the exposition of a method. It was very simple, at the end of that moving appeal to every altruistic sentiment is blazed at, luminous and terrifying, like a flash of lightning in a serene sky: ‘Exterminate all the brutes!’(272 Conrad).
Kurtz had gone mad getting things done out in dark depths of the hostile African jungle, all the ivory in the world wouldn’t bring him back, yet he was still viewed by his peers as on track by getting the job done and sending back mounds of ivory.
            Throughout his voyage toward Kurtz’s whereabouts Marlow becomes awesomely aware of how corrupted Kurtz was forced to become to be so successful at achieving his task of sending home ivory tremendously efficiently. Only after listening to stories told by the Russian Marlow is convinced Kurtz has crossed a line.
He hated all this, and somehow he couldn’t get away. When I had a chance I begged him to try and leave while there was time; I offered to go back with him. And he would say yes, and then he would remain; go off on another ivory hunt; disappear for weeks; forget himself amongst these people—forget him-self—you know.’ ‘Why! He’s mad,’I said (277 Conrad)
Here Marlow becomes certain, after hearing what the Russian has to say, that Kurtz’s abilities have become beyond unorthodox and have fallen into a realm of complete evil. Mr. Kurtz in all of his insanity has gone on living like a God in the deepest darkest corner of the planet. Using his position among the aboriginals, Kurtz practices his domination over the tribes, raping the land like he had the right of a deity over it.
Mr. Kurtz’s was no idol of mine. He forgot I hadn’t heard any of these splendid monologues on, what was it? On love, justice, conduct of life—or what not. If it had come to crawling before Mr. Kurtz, he crawled as much as the veriest savage of them all. (279 Conrad)
Marlow knew in his human soul that the journey into the heart of darkness had destroyed the dignity that was once present in the honorable Mr. Kurtz, yet Marlow still believes the man is special.
            The images Marlow is presented with in the his pursuit to hear the voice of the honorable and evil Mr. Kurtz do paint a picture of a nightmare, yet in the bowels of it all Marlow identifies Kurtz as remarkable. Because submerged within the cavity of evil Kurtz takes that one final step into the world of darkness by realizing his transgressions. Marlow reflects his view of the last moments of Kurtz’s existence.
‘The horror!’ He was a remarkable man. After all, this was the expression of some sort of belief; it had candor, it had conviction, it had a vibrating note of revolt in it’s whisper, it had the appalling face of a gimps of truth—the strange commingling of desire and hate. (289 Conrad)
Our narrator and storyteller bears witness to Kurtz’s realization of the reality of his supremacy and what it has done to him. Kurtz’s dies aware of his evil, he dies acknowledging his sins and seeing the flaws of his existence. Marlow’s purpose then after is to spread the good word, the truth. That an evil man, found in the depths of hell is still capable of affirming his acceptance of whom he was, and that what he did was wrong, and through it all Marlow maintains that Kurtz was an incredible human for attaining what he did at the end of the river that coils through the continent like a serpent.  

 Work Cited
Conrad, Joseph. “Heart Of Darkness. ”Understanding Fiction. Ed. Judith Roof 
 [Boston];Houghton Mifflin, 2005. 233-94. Print.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

This is a journey everywhere

"Laughing at yourself isn't easy you know" she said to him from behind the desk. He was young and innocent, perfectly ordinary. "Whatever, I can take it." he said under his nose. The only thing she could do was look at him. His face was still half numb from his lunch time bump. "Nothing kills a good time like a self esteem stopper." He exhaled, beginning to feel the elation wear off.  The occurrence depressed  him in that instant. "David... David?" She calls, a worried look in her eyes. David jerkily regains himself. "What's up?" he asks. She looks at him, "David, you look like you've seen a ghost ....

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Gonna hand it in without a title

In search of her missing Father, Atwood’s nameless narrator is confronted with an emergence of deeply hidden truths about herself, forcing her to descend below the surface of her psyche; therefore, shedding light on the events in her life that caused her to submerge the actual truth into an alternate reality.  Upon her arrival on the small island where the narrator was raised, she is immediately bombarded with images that will not allow her to ignore her fragmented account of the past. The problems involving her husband, marriage, and child arise the instant she spots relics of her forgotten youth. These barricades coupled with the matters of the unhealthy relationships she is currently living beneath, make uncovering her true self increasingly instinctive even animalistic and incredibly individual. By the end of the novel we find ourselves with her, coming to grips with her actual truths, realities that have been brought up from an anchored state, immersed, drowned even, in a creepy sub surface of her psyche.

            As we the reader float up to the bank of the narrators island home, somewhere in a desolate ex logging community in northern Quebec, we are informed of our narrators past, her memories some that occurred earlier in her life, others before the narrator was born. She tells us the story of her brothers drowning explaining to us how she was able to see the event from within her mother’s womb. She also associates the “large cage or small playground” (Atwood 34) with her own child and husband, but not necessarily in a coherent manner. Often when associating her hidden shattered history, pieces of her comprehensible past are used to magnify and, in the beginning of the novel, alter her memory to give the reader a segment of a divided truth.

It was before I was born but I can remember it clearly as if I saw it, and perhaps I did see it: I believe that an unborn baby has its eyes open and can look out through the walls of the mother’s stomach, like a frog in a jar. (Atwood 32)

Atwood clearly uses foreshadowing here, yet makes it very difficult for the reader to spot a logical connection to the protagonists cognitive deficiencies, even though her problems are all clearly laid out in front of us in a metaphoric manner.

            Coherence is hard to find throughout the beginning of the narrators search for her father, the reader is confronted with fragments of a whole, the protagonist herself seems to have no rational thought process as she ensues her search for her lost father. Karen F Stein informs us about the main characters way of communicating  in  “Home Ground, Foreign Territory”(the title of Steins third chapter and a line from the novel ) “ The stylistic discontinuities reflect her emotional fragmentation and displacement”(Stein 53) Atwood uses language to give the reader a sense of the disillusionment created by words (literally) used by the protagonist. Stein say’s “She strings together independent clauses with almost no coordinating or subordinating linkage.” (Stein 53) Atwood uses all these literary devices to confuse the reader, and to dismantle the main character herself, to nothing not even lies, allowing the protagonist to pursue the search for her father as well as giving way for her own individual internal struggles to surface as a healthy individual.
Toward the climax of the novel we are exposed to enough of the facts to understand that the nameless narrator is in search of more then just her missing father, but also her shattered vision of her broken self.  In chapter seventeen we are introduced to the narrators phantasm of her dead past, possibly a vision of her lost father, and certainly a picture of her unborn aborted child.  “It was blurred but it had eyes, they were open, it was something I knew about, a dead thing, it was dead.”(Atwood 142) Then the protagonist goes further into the circumstances surrounding her abortion, first incoherently then establishing a more real connection for herself and the reader.
I knew when it was, it was in a bottle curled up, staring out at me like a cat pickled… That was wrong, I never saw it. They scraped it into a bucket and threw it wherever they throw them”(Atwood 143)

Nameless or not, our protagonist begins to make her way toward exposing her hidden self after seeing past her distorted notions that she had created to live with her own decisions, like the decision to destroy the life of her child.

            After accepting a more appropriate reality the narrator is presented with an almost alternate reality, no one around her is aware of her new realizations of her most recent rationalizations that bring her closer to her actual state of being. Banko Gorjup says in his essay “Paradox of Discourse”
Atwood manipulates her protagonist out of her state of consciousness in which she must confront a more prosaic dilemma: either “the hospital or the zoo.” Not surprisingly, she opts for the “hospital” (Gorjup 21)

 But just because she’s able to put herself in the nut house instead of the hen house doesn’t mean she’s out of the dark, the narrator is still in the process of ascension toward her genuine existence. While packing the canoe the protagonist continues a disturbing cognitive process, ones that evoke a progression toward the advancement of her psychosis. At this point her thoughts are centered on her travel companions “It was all right as long as they stuck to dead things, the dead can defend themselves, to be half dead is worse” (Atwood 166). She goes on to destroy David’s film by exposing it to the elements. These unconventional deeds are, simply stated, ways the narrator can set herself apart from the oppressors, the “Americans” (Atwood 169).  Within the unorthodox reality, the one that is closer to resembling a factual conception of the narrators real status in life, she begins to make decisions that push aside the obstacles that are preventing her from re surfacing as a healthy individual, these decisions likewise boost her towards the surface, towards a rationality.

             Upon the retrieval of her still fragmented and shattered true self, Atwood’s nameless protagonist empowers herself enough to acknowledge that she is going to need to change. “This above all, to refuse to be a victim. “Unless I can do that I can do nothing.” (Atwood 191).  After her journey through her mind using an enigmatic cognitive process, the main character reaches a point of acknowledgment that can be reflected as a position that is above the demented unreality that she was forcing herself to live under. Whether or not that narrator is in the right mindset to be a productive member of society is still questionable, but her resurrection as a character that’s not going to be victimized is seen as a triumph. Many of the conflicts she is fighting within herself throughout the beginning of the novel have been resolved.  Her father is found along with her honest yet fragmented sense of self. The protagonist is aware of her dispositions, and the difficulties that lay ahead, but she is looking forward toward a real future, one based on the truth about her self.

Works Cited

Atwood, Margaret. Surfacing. 1972. Toronto: McClelland, 1994. Print.

Gorjup, Branko. “Paradox of Discourse.” Margraret Atwood Essays on Her Works. Ed.
 Branko Gorjup.[Toronoto]: Guernica, 2008. 42-54. Print.

Stein, Karen F. Margaret Atwood revisited.  1999. New York: Twayne, 1999. Print.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

taxitalk: Slick roads and a snow storm the fucking cold is back

taxitalk: Slick roads and a snow storm the fucking cold is back

This Post is awesome!

"fuck I forget!"

Turning to her with a light-hearted smile he knelt before her and gave her a slight kiss on the cheek. She was still visibly unhappy, it didn't worry him she never was really in a good mood. He loved her though, he'd travel around with her through thick and thine. They had already seen the world together, he had been lucky enough to be stationed in several exotic continents. She loved the tropics and the desert, the people of the orient too. The world excited her, but nothing in her marvelous existence truly fulfilled her heart. "There is just more to it!" she used to say, arms crossed with a big puffy lip squeezing out from under her nose. She was right and he knew it. "There is more to it baby, I agree." He used to stop and tell her to try to appease herself. Nothing worked she needed to understand the final piece of the puzzle, death. She was sixteen by this time. A women in most regards, out there in the middle east, well not to him, but in her eyes she was ready to be given some independence. Over their years of travel many things had happened, he was in the Melita sometimes, he needed to make ends meet. He always wanted to offer her the best, unfortunately sometimes the best meant she had to get up and move with him, sometimes across the world, sometimes across the street. Life was up and down for the two of them and it made her developing heart miserable. They both accepted it, there was really nowhere else for her to go. She needed him and he needed her. Life was hard outside of the boundaries of their home, whatever the two of them had at the time was sanctuary just as long as they were together.
One night she was awakened with a sudden jolt and then shock. "Come sweetie quickly, we have to go, they're here for you, we have to go." He was always so calm in those situations, under the highest caliber of stress he seemed to remain level headed, always. She remembered the smell of smoke that night, it was then, the night after he had brought her out of the compound, he had allowed her to drive the truck. Now the two of them were ridding off into the desert, alone. It was cool out there, but she was used to it. Sitting in the armored vehicle she remembered the first time they set off into the night.

"Sidney would you hurry up?" she remembered his voice, it was horse and tiered, the two of them hadn't been sleeping when he heard the insurgents. They were there for the three of them. He was a rebel, an escaped convict, Sidney was his accomplice. The two would have been invincible if it wasn't for her, just a refugee, a twerp, her child. She remembered what it was like the three of them in the truck, listening to the radio, listening, finding out clues on what to do next, where to go. The last time the three of them were together she remembered the smell of the burning flesh.

'Hey Billy?" she asked him, shaking her head trying to block the memory of her scorched mother from coming to mind. It wasn't his fault, but every time she looked into his eyes she saw the burden he carried. "Yeah?" he asked back. It was early morning now, and the sun was making head way up, filling the horizon with fragments of sugar coated, colorful, vibrant light. The colors reminded her of life. Smiling she asked "What was the name of that song?" "Which one"he asked, straight faced, happy to be out of the way of danger. "That song mom used to sing to me before we started running,"

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

My reflection in the mirror lost its wits for love

"So what is it all about?" She asks him, full of angst. "I'm alone here, waiting for you to answer me" tear rolling down her check. "Baby, you really think I can answer that?" he responds, shaking his head looking down. "Just tell me what you think it is all about?" she asked again, tearing up. Her appearance pissing him off he says, "You're suppose to be beautiful all the time." All he could think about was how ugly they got when they faked sadness. "You want to know what I think" a pause "o.k" he stopped and looked at himself in the mirror. Then looked over at her.  She was watching him, he pulled it out, his gun, and pointed it at his reflection. She was stunned, and scared, looking over at her he could tell she was watching. He kept the barrel pointed at himself, he looked forward and said "If I could pull the trigger and shoot myself without breaking the mirror I would." He stood there "it's all slight of hand, quick" the words fumbled out of his mouth. She sat up staring into the mirror, their eyes met in the reflection. "Quick, pull the trigger" she yelled, impatient. "It's not a real gun" he said saddened.  "You're suppose to sacrifice yourself for me" he said. "Who said?" she asked.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

daddy's little girl isn't hard to find

"Do you think you're oppressive?" he sat there asking. Alone, no one really in the room. There's a bunch of people outside in the living room waiting,  but he's just sitting in the office on her fathers big old leather chair. "Life's great." He mumbles, then spins in the chair. "Freedom" he whispers, dragging out his legs and bringing the chair to a halt. "What is freedom?" he asks himself looking over the portrait of the sailor. The picture on the package of papers shows a working man. "Working men" he say's to himself. "If you smoke a pack a day in this day and age in this country, you're paying 300$ a month minimum...Freedom?" Vocalizing his thoughts makes him laugh. "300 bucks fuck now that's freedom!" he yells, smiling holding it in his hand. "So am I oppressed?" he asks himself again, thinking out loud. He notices her science book laying on her fathers desk, grade 12 curriculum. Picking up the book in one hand and holding out the rolled joint in the other, weighing them, reasoning with one and embracing the other, he justifies it.


Reviewing his to do list, he laid there thinking about tomorrow. "It's finally suppose to be a nice day!" he mentions with excitement in his voice. "What?" She asks him, looking down feeling a little bit awkward. Her mind gets set a drift watching the top of his head. "Remember to text him!" She remarks thinking of Jim from the office, they both have the same hair cut. "What?" he asks, his mouth is full. "Nothing baby." She insists, again settling back to work, he starts thinking about his car, she needs fixing he thinks to himself. Then he remembers splashing the old lady on the way to work today, driving through that puddle. "He ha" the laughter snickering under his breath. Her hand moves over his hair toward his face. "Are you laughing at me." she asks, then moves awkwardly.  "Is it me, am I o.k?" she asks him, annoyed. "I know it's taking a long time. But don't worry, it's not you. Just keep going." Cramming his face back down. "k" he says, already forgetting about the old lady and remembering the phone call he forgot to make. "Fuck!" he say's but going about business as usual. She doesn't hear him, easing her mind on the thought of the boy's at school, the ones wearing uniforms. He seems to be on track she thinks, then looking down at him she realizes that his eyes are staring past her. "You know you're licking my G spot?" she asks, looking right down into his eye's. "What?" He asks, dazed, confused about the questioning. "What where you thinking about while you where licking my pussy." She asks stopping, siting up, then hesitating. "You almost got me off, and you weren't even paying attention, what were you thinking about?" she remarked accusingly then said "I could see in your eyes it wasn't my clit." Sitting there dazed for a moment looking up at her he said

Friday, March 18, 2011


"Close the window" he heard his mother tell him. "Sure mom" he yelled, not making any move toward the latch. He sat there staring out. The moon was huge, "It's a full moon"  he whispered to himself, looking up, twinkle in the eyes. He was watching her from his window. He noticed the way she kept the blinds open over a year ago.  She was only Jessie's mom back then. He knew she wanted him to look because the first time she caught him watching them, the first time she ever laid her eye's on him, he was behind her. They were making love. He was only fifteen but he could see the two of them in his window. It was thrilling, wondrous, stimulating and new.
"Thomas" he heard his mother cry from behind his door. It frightened him, she stormed in, he was still staring through his window, watching her, the two of them wild. "What are you doing?" she asked him in a accusing tone. It annoyed him, cause he knew she wasn't going to accept his answer "nothing." "Thomas, look at me" she demanded. He was still behind the curtain, trying to keep his eyes off the two of them. Hoping that she would turn off the lights, hoping his mother wouldn't notice what he was doing. "Thomas, come out here" she exclaimed. He did as he was told. "So Tommy, how was school?" he knew what she was going to be getting at, he failed an essay a week ago, and since the teacher never received a the signed copy of it, he knew Mrs. Jerkins would have called. "Mom I know what you're gonna say!" Thomas commented before his mother could even mutter a word.

Monday, March 14, 2011

and he smashed my brains out

Waiting for the traffic light to change I sit behind the wheel of my hatchback, I'm holding back the clutch. I'm restrained, amputated heartless. I want to get there, move. The light, the red light in front of me is growing longer and longer. It's unbelievable, I've been here for over six minutes and the light on the opposite end of this spectrum is still telling the pedestrian that she's welcome to bridge. The old woman who wants to cross is hesitating because the light hasn't changed in so long. She doesn't want to be caught out in traffic moving too slow. It's happened to her before. She's found herself out there, stuck, paralyzed unable to move fast enough to fake the blinking hand. That time I remember. I made sure to scare the shit out of her. I almost ran her down. Traffic is something you should take seriously. Seriously, don't mess with me in traffic. On the freeway, it's my way or the high way. What's that suppose to mean. Well if you're a granny crossing the God Damn road and you end up in my way. I'll hound you down. Bark, with my horn. Cause I drive a car. If you can't drive, I'll teach you, traffic is a behavior, a bad habit. something you can't change. People are idiots, and then there is rush hour. I'm almost always here at a red light, the color is violent on my way to work. I'm not late yet, but I will be. There doesn't seem to be a logical solution to driving. Taking the bus? Mmm not me, I once saw a girl (who must have been born outside a barn) projectile vomit from one side of the bus to the other. I was an adolescent, so was she, but it bothered me.  The fact that it made me feel sick was normal I thought, but when I watched the others, the people using the public transit, they all took it, liked it, smiled,  a grain of salt lost on a kitchen table. One man didn't even lift his shoe as a wave of it crept up on him. He just read the sports section in the Sunday Sun. The driver gave the girls a hardy good bye as they fled the scene. Stinking. I was forced to sit on that bus for another half hour. Now I'm stuck at this ....Green light, and wouldn't you know right as I'm crossing the intersection some old coot ran the red. He was a bus driver,

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Noticing the text is laid out on the page..."Funny!" he said, pointing his finger at the bent and backward writing. " What it that?" He asked her. "I don't know" she said, "it's just the way it was written I guess." She said uncertain. "My books are at the library are we gonna go get em or what?

Saturday, March 12, 2011

My eyes hurt, the back of my head throbbing. "This is not going to be easy" I tell myself. My fever is getting worse, "I can't seem to warm up." I reach down and pick up the remote, the TV  turns on and leaves this faint humming sound in the background. Focusing on the screen is futile, "my eyes, they're like two swollen puffy sores in my mind" I can't help but vocalize. I'm the only one in my house, but still "I figure I should get to talk with an intruder this disastrous." I'm talking to it, my sickness, I guess "It's becoming a delirium." Doesn't worry me though. I've been taking medicine. "Strait out the Drugstore!" I need to develop them, the stereotypes, and try to bring the fever down. Stop the pain, "It's not going to be easy!" I say, my heads about to roll off under the TV. The humming is causing stress "leave it on!" I tell him. He laughs, I seem to get a little sicker. My Mind can't find the pilot. That humming persists, and I wake up in  a cold sweat,

Wednesday, March 9, 2011


He held his hands on the frosted mug. "Hot day hey?" he asked jovial. "Yeah" she answered, "it's suppose to be plus twenty seven tomorrow." The two of them standing in the kitchen, point blank to the window, no curtains,  just the powerful force of a spotlight of sun beaming through. "Man, someone should put a curtain in the window, it's so bright in here." She said, covering her eyes with her forearm and palm. She was a gorgeous brunet, thirty three, handsome features. They sat there, he was staring at her shadow, the dark white in contrast to the blown out wall in front of him. "It's so hot in here Eddie" she said "I need to lay down I don't feel well." She was headed for his room. A tight cramped space in the north side of the tenth floor bachelor pad. "No" Eddie said, stumbling at her. He was a large boy. Six foot three, personable. As he came at her, he had a funny look in his eye.
"Where's my friend?" she asked, "Eddie?" He stood in front of her, their gloom cast in contrast to the light hitting the north side of the wall. With Eddie standing in front of her like that she realized that it looked like he was the soul person in the room, no one else there to accept the vigorous and powerful gaze of the sun. As she looked at her mock reflection, the contrasts,  fragmented on the shapes of his body, she thought about how he got her up here, she closed her eyes and looked back into the sun.

"I'm really not in the mood for another drink" she remembered herself saying. He was pestering her, she really didn't mind, she wanted another. They were in a club named The Tantrum Tick. She looked up at him, she was drunk, she remembered and said "Hey daddy!" kicking her foot onto his lap, the two there sitting alone on the bar stools, "do you like my long legs?" He smiled and asked the barkeep for another drink. The Bartender laughed, "Happy hour starts at two" he reached for the Vodka "You got five minutes, so ill take my time, and brew you up a Vodka slime." She remembered the taste of that drink.

Opening her eye's she turned her head back towards him, away from the bright shine of the sun. "Have you ever heard of Yellow Jackets or is it Red Jackets?" She was serious, she could remember the taste of the pills when she was a teenager. "Roofies, or were they speed?" She began to lose herself in her words. "I'm hot!" she exclaimed looking up at him, seeing a haze. "Wanna go to my room" he asked, she was nauseous, couldn't stand. Everything seemed to be falling in on her. Eddie stood there holding her. He knew what he was doing, where she was going, as he lead her into his room, "wanna listen to my Beetles collection?" a smile coming over him as he asked.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Three years ago

Digging his fingers into the jar was easier then he though it would be. Fishing out an egg was harder. He was drunk and they were slippery. "You got to eat six or I won't give you a dime" a hipster yelled from behind him. He fished one out of the massive container, its sleek skin felt funny in his fingers but he was happy to have a grip on the cause. "I got one" he exclaimed, an uproar ensued behind him as he devoured the pickled egg. "One" the crowed yelled behind him. He laughed as his hand returned, descending, a  limb back for a second helping, then a third.  By the forth though he slowed, ascending his arm, pickled spawn in hand and said "I don't feel well Kurtis" then he turned and looked at a tall, thin man in the crowd, his hand still resting in the jar. "Marley, you know you got to eat six" Kurtis said, standing there malevolently. Marley continued, to eat in pain. "Four" the crowd of bar patrons yelled after his body accepted the forth, "Five" after the fifth, everyone in the bar except for Kurtis was in a frenzy waiting to see Marley down the sixth pickled egg. Kurtis stood there thinking about the night they had pickled those eggs...

Friday, March 4, 2011

that men are not disposable

Angry and alone running scattered thoughts through her mind.  "I feel betrayed" Sophia say's lashing out at her image in the mirror. "I don't believe this face has no one to kiss" weaving her hands across her facial features. "I'm getting older you know?" She say's to herself resting her index finger on a minuscule fold in the skin. "A wrinkle" she exclaims, moving her finger over the tiny crease. Closing her eyes, staring at herself blindly. "I'm beautiful" she say's to herself opening her left eye and gazing back into herself. "Tonight I'll have a man to persuade." She stops, thinks, then say's to herself in the mirror "then I'll throw him away." 
Watching the boys shift out from home room she was excited for the weekend, work was over. Teaching had become menial. Educating today's youth no longer brought her pride the way it used to. "Why did you have to leave me" she whispered to herself as the last of her students disappeared into the mid day summer sun. She was lonelier then ever. Sitting in a tiny desk in the corner of the class room she thought about herself again, standing there next to him. Putting her hands, balled up in fists, under her chin, she mumbled "I miss him." realizing where the loneliness was coming from. Her excitement vanishes, and she stays sitting on the chair almost detained, but breathing. "He was such a good kisser" she say's touching her upper lip with her manicured hand. "But that was twenty years ago."she say's tearing up at the memory. "Now he's gone." She knows now, sitting there in the middle of her own class room,

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Am I american or Canadian? Would you guess we are women or A man?

A sign on the road, an angle. That's what they think is a sign. What the fuck do they know about signs. The truth, no one knows nothin, I know that, so I make up my own reality. The other day I was driving through some seriously chaotic traffic, it was crazy, fucking cars to the left and right of me. I was so fucking hungry, holy fucking shit, I just wanted to fucking eat, so I was speeding. I was on a freeway, my speedometer read 200km/hr, I punched it. Pushed the limits of the car, I was hungry, what a crazy day. I was speeding... so? Who cares? then my phone rang......Ring a Ding Ding Dong.

It was my mom, she told me something about my fucking dad, ahhh, what an ass hole, I bet he thinks like they do, about that sign on the road, the one slanted on the angle. what the fuck do they know? Nothing!
She told me bout my brother and sister, and how they won't stop fighting. I was living 200km away. I said "Mom there in nothing I can do!" then I hung up. I was on a mission to eat, I need the car to speed up, I neeeeeed to eat. I did't find much success in that, but I tried to move faster, there was a car in front of me...BAM. I blasted past her, It was outrageous. I was hungry. When the guy on the Radio said, that there is a special on. The announcement rang "Cheap eats, sweet Beets. I was totally down..153st. Holy shit I was close on the freeway, such a democracy on the road.
I got exited on the off ramp, so stubborn is the road, it held me down. So I slowed, and followed the traffic, weeping because the sermon was over, and his highness was happy with his choice in partner.
"I'm hungry!" where am I gonna eat, I think, And find the fast food joint going to give me diarrhea. "They all do!" I say out loud. It's a dirty crooked sign that I belong on the road, but what do I know, other then this city, and the cold. The truth is no one can hide, no one is right. Those are the facts. Then I see a symbol up ahead,  lite with neon, to the moon, standing tight in front of me full bloom, what an angel, I was the Swan and Leda my Gyre   I took a ride on back there but that was over 2000 years ago.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

shadow hounds and God

It was three o-clock in the morning when he felt the hunger settle in. He had been behaving like an animal for most of the night. "I'm just so fucking hungry!" he said to his friends. The three of them stood there behind the school finishing up the bottles of booze. "Here" the biggest of the three said in an angry demanding drunk voice. "Jeffrey you better drink this!" the bigger of the three insisted. "Micheal, no!  Stop." Jeffery said, pushing his hand out toward the metallic shot glass the contents of which Micheal was trying to force down Jeffery's throat. "Listen boys" said the third boy sitting on the steps in the moon light. "We have to get something to eat" he stalled, looked up past the shadows and into the moonlight. Then with a few funny drunken movements, he stumbled onto his feet and howled at the moon. Jeffery and Micheal stood at the bottom of the stairs watching their companion howl horrifically at earths satellite. "Fuck he's terrifying" Jeffery said to Michael drunkenly, then finally accepting the shot, he threw it back in his own face.

 On the way uptown the three quickly realized that in the state they found themselves in, in their drunken stupor, they were bound to find themselves in a heap of trouble in the this small town. "Sebastian, we should go back to the house no?  I can eat there, we don't have to go wandering around here in this village in the middle of the night,  who knows what we'd run into" Jeffery said drunk, already starting back in the direction of the house. Sebastian looked at him and said "Shut up! Go home if you want to. Michael and me  are gonna go find something to eat"  nudging Micheal lightly saying "Remember that Tree?" In a whisper.

The two set off in the direction of the Cathedral. It was an old village, Jeffery followed them. They lurked in the shadow, he walked in the lamp light. Behind the Church there was a pasture. The green of the place amazed all three of them earlier that day in the sunlight. Looking back at it Jeffery knew this was going to happen. Sebastien loves to raid the garden when he gets drunk. Earlier that afternoon the three of them had scouted out the plot. It was on of the biggest most magnificent gardens Jeffery had ever seen, "this is an amazing place" he said, his mouth hanging open as he looked through the gate toward the endlessly expanding piece of land. "It's huge" Micheal said, looking past all the trees. Jeffery remembered the look in Sebastien's eyes when he saw the Apricots, all three of them could see the the colors of the ripening fruits. "Look at em!" Sebastien yelled "They're like little salmon in a sea of orchard green." He stopped, they all stared. Leaning up against the fence then, Jeffery had already envisioned Sebastien jumping over the fence in much the same way he actually did in the moon light. Jeffery stood there watching them in the lamp light of the night.

The two boys were in the Garden, it was even more impressive in the moon light. The heavenly body reflecting the suns radiance on the boys. It was like a show, a stage where an act was to take place. Jeffery stood in the middle of the street, he was cold, and hungry but he wasn't going to jump the fence. He watched as the two figures started moving around the vegetation. The were both being  quiet but Jeffery could tell that they were running a muck. "God Sebastien why can 't you just be human" Jeffery said out loud. Then standing there under the spotlight of the moon he began to watch the drama unfold. 

The first sound that tore through the scene was that of a man, "The Priest" Jeffery whispered to himself.  "Demo" Jeffery head the voice of the man say. The two boys continued to plunder the garden. Sebastien even howled at the moon again. "Sick em" Jeffery heard from the corner of his ear. Then he saw them, three black Labradors, stealth, steal and speed in the night. They ran at the two intruders, "Sebastien!  Dogs!" Micheal yelled, but on deaf ears, Sebastien was already in high gear running toward the fence. One of the Labs was right on his heels, Michael was to dunk to run and a bitch jumped and began to maul him. Jeffery could hear his yells, the Priest did nothing. Then it was Sebastien's turn, there where two dogs chasing him, and right as he made it to the fence they got him. Jeffery could hear them scream, both of them. He stood there for a bit then howled at the moon.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

feels good for some and others too, but not everyone.

It wasn't so long ago, that the two of them set off to take on the day. Remembering that day was always hard for Eliot. He was a sensitive person, life hadn't been the kindest medium for him. He wasn't an unhappy person but he definitely held a grudge against a few people. The worst of which, where he most often thrust most of his negative energy was in the direction of his family, mostly. He wasn't an angry creature, but he was an animal.
Eliot was twelve years old the day he embarked on a journey to the dentist with his mother. Twelve years old when he wondered away from his beloved mother on a subway car. He lost his mom heading toward the dentist. He remembered that day so well, he understood why he got lost.

"It's six thirty in the morning!" she yelled through her teeth, upset. He was standing over top of her, pillow in hand ready to blow. "Eliot, you're twelve years old, why don't you grow up.?" His mother was visibly upset. He had was elated, he felt great. "Mom you deserve it, you know I hate the dentist." he said, still standing over her, armed heavily with his own pillow. "You're right Eliot, next time the dentist tells me you've got a hole the size of kingdom come in your molar I'll tell em to just screw right off." She rolled over, he stood there for a minute before he started pocking around his mouth with his finger.

Later that morning, after he let his mom sleep in a bit longer, he came into the room with pancakes. "Oh my God Eliot, who taught you to make such awesome pancakes." she asked him, knowing full well it was his grandmother. Eliot didn't answer "Mom when is the appointment?" He asked her, he was scared. The last time he went to Dr. Zorododsky's for a filling he left all busted up. "Mom are you gonna ask them to be nice to me." He asked. "Yes sweetie, off course they'll be nice to you." she answered. Remembering the last incident she turned to him and said " you know Eliot, you're gonna have to wear one of those rubber things again, it's not gonna be nice." He was aware for some reason everyone, even his mother, though it was him who'd behaved badly that last time, but it wasn't.

After breakfast, the two made their way to the train station on foot. It was only a fifteen minute walk, the weather was right. The snow crunched underneath their feet, Eliot was nervous. "Mom?" He asked. "Yes" she said looking straight ahead toward the horizon. "Why don't you believe me?" he asked. He was clearly upset, she smiled, "are you talking about that last visit." "Mom!" he shouted "Why?".  She stopped, Eliot turned and looked at her, the sun was just starting to make itself  present with its morning light directly behind his mother. It forced him to squint. "Eliot." she made eye contact, "Eliot, Eliot!" she screamed grabbing his shoulders, "no one wants to hurt you on purpose!" Standing there, arms hanging, Eliot kept his head down, "Mom" he waited for her to interrupt him, she didn't "Mom" he said with a calm collected voice. "The last time we were at the dentist, he asked me to wear that mask." Eliot remembered, Looking up at his mom, her head directly in the way of the now vibrant sun she was a silhouette, dark in the foreground, burnt in the back. He had to squint to see her. "He asked me if I wanted a flavored gas, he said do you want bubble gum or licorices?  I said bubblegum, told him that I hated licorices. But then when I got it, it was licorices." he stopped. She started to walk forward. "I didn't say anything because I thought it was an honest mistake, but mom." He looked up, "when he jabbed me with the needle it hurt. Mom, it wasn't because I could feel any pain, it was because the dentist looked weird. He scared me, and it still does." He immediately felt better telling his mother how he felt as they rounded the gates to get onto the train.

"Mom" he asked, can I please get a new dentist. Turning slowly toward Eliot, his mother reached into her purse and fished out a transit ticked. Here, take it, we got to go.