I wanted to be the destructor for once. I was always building up. I wanted to paste up idols in a stark white bedroom. I wanted to enhance beauty by making it hideous. Instead, I got to shout out a monotone laugh from the ashes and not have much to show for it 5 years down the road. Instead of offending and consuming, I got to stand by my man. I got to hide the glass-bottled secrets from an army while the wallpaper peeled. I could see it gradually peeling every single day. I had the ultimate privilege of advertising a smile and a loquacious excuse while diving into orange swimming pools from atop trapeze platforms. I got to paint it happy and slip on some jeans. I drew my hand in the closet. I dusted unceasingly. I was so cold.
I don’t even know what this is but I really like it…so…shut up.
After years of hard work, James grew to be a very bitter young boy. He reached the third grade with a thud and a plaid backpack. His mother packed him full of brownies from a young age and that never really did anything for him. He was better off eating dirt with the other kids, but his pristinely clean ivory-white hands prevented him from doing so. Instead he gathered phrases that were likely to influence him most in the future. Nothing fancy, just a lot of clichés and some compliments about his new red blazer. He only had one friend, Thomas, who was never seen outside the classroom due to his severe allergies. And as Thomas loved staying in the silence of the classroom and James was very fond of peanuts, it was quite apparent that they were both destined to be lonely. The teacher, Mrs. McMullen, was very into her songwriting career that didn’t really exist because of her life as a schoolteacher. Most of her songs were about Thomas and his love of being indoors. Nancy McMullen was fascinated by Thomas’ resilience to trial. He thrived in his iron lung while she wanted to beat down the walls. She had no one to share her songs with. She wrote them during lunch break while all the children were recessed except for Thomas, who sometimes cleaned the desks or asked to see that night’s homework in advance, even though he didn’t know how to do it yet. He said it gave him a step up.
Nancy would stuff her lyrics, written on receipts and the backs of children’s letters to the president and flattened paper coffee cups, into a file in her desk drawer marked “recess”.
James liked to tell people that his red blazer was from Spain. Not only that, but that it was cut from the red cloth used by the most famous matador in modern Spanish bullfighting. “I can’t remember his name, but I assure you, Mrs. McMullen, he’s a very suave, very up-and-coming matador. He truly holds the future of the sport in the palm of his hand.”
“Is that so?” Mrs. McMullen stirred over James’ stories and wrote songs about them. They were never about young boys lying to make themselves seem more interesting, but rather about old men who try all day to strike up conversations with strangers in the park until everyone knows to avoid them, or lonely housewives who mull over their mistakes silently in their modern American homes until they’re driven to recommit their regrets by their own spinning thoughts.
I wrote this last year. Even though my writing has a long way to go before I actually like it, I think it’s safe to say that it has improved since then.
Don’t you hate how the main characters of stories always have the trendy and kitschy names that you wish you had as a child? Maybe you like that. Maybe that’s the secret to a good novel. Maybe I should change my name to Clover Borroughs or Lizzie Twixt or Randi McNeal so that people will actually read this. Maybe not even a kitschy name will save this dying work.
Because when it comes down to it, I don‘t actually know what I’m doing. (Surprise!) So feel free to put this pile of crap back on the shelf now. Assuming there is a shelf. Maybe you, the reader, are the Ivory Towers SOB who chose me for this stupid publishing contest, shuffling around this lovely evening in your bedroom slippers with your sample copy of my book in hand while your daily installment of taped episodes of Frasier from 1998 play in the other room. In that case, I apologize. That is, I apologize in advance for my grammar and punctuation and fragmented sentences and lack of motivation on this novel. I’m sorry that I wrote one good story that won one stupid contest. I’m also sorry that I read the fine print of my contract that left me far too much leeway in what my new work would be about…or its similarity to my one good story…or its length, quality, et cetera.
Because when it comes down to it, my one good story was all I could do. I can’t make another The Lighthouses if you paid me (pun intended). That’s why I’ve decided to tell you the only story I have left: that is, my story. The story of my twentysomething years on the planet and the adventures that have kept me company along the way. Yeah, really interesting, I know. Biographies are only worth reading when they’re about Hemingway or Kerouac or maybe, on a good day, Prince Charles. Who’ll ever read the biography of Kim Levitz? Apparently you will. Are you depressed or something? Why are you still reading this crap? Did your girlfriend walk out on you today? And she left this book behind? And you’re trying to catch any glimpse you can of beloved Courtney? Have you tried smelling this book? Does it smell of beloved Courtney? Probably not. If she had liked it, she would have taken it with her. Instead she left it behind with the pizza coupons and those burned Indigo Girls CDs that her lesbian friend gave her in college. Maybe you could have kept her around if you knew her better than her lesbian friend. Beloved Courtney doesn’t even like the Indigo Girls.
Dang, I’ve never written a biography before. I guess I should start from the beginning. That’s where Kerouac’s started. I was born…wait…should I start a new chapter or something? Oh crap, nevermind. Forget it.
I wrote this last semester when I was supposed to be studying for an astronomy test. I wrote it in the library. I like this story a lot…obviously.
I got in the car before everyone else even made it out of the house. I was always the first one in the car. I swear we would never actually go anywhere if I never got in the car first. Megan followed, and then my dad, with his usual comment upon stepping out the door about how it wasn’t this cold last year or whatever. My mom was last, of course. But then we were on our way to the woods. Or the forest, I guess they call it. The place where the trees are, anyway.
I’d always had qualms with the tradition of Christmas trees. I leaned forward and asked my father why we had Christmas trees but he didn’t hear me. He had his wooly earflap hat on over his ears. He was always cold. He had real low blood pressure or something. Also, the radio was on real loud, on some jazzy-style Christmas carol. I didn’t feel like repeating myself, though. I never do. There’s always someone around who heard you the first time and for some reason it’s just less embarrassing to pipe down all together rather than have someone hear you say the stupid sentence twice. It’s never anything important, anyway. Nothing we say is ever very important when you think about it.
But I kept the Christmas trees on my mind. It’s a very strange tradition. And for some reason, I can’t help but believe that someone out there in the world has never even thought about that. Some girl out there had lived her whole life, Christmas time in about Christmas time out, never ever thinking about how weird Christmas trees are. I bet she really likes Christmas trees. Loves them, even.
You cut something off from its natural source of nutrients; you put it in its most unnatural environment and attempt to slow the visible effects of death. Mom vacuums the needles from the floor every day until the day you throw it out. You decorate it with shiny things, colorful things, things with memories attached to them. This is a family tradition, after all. I don’t mean to sound like a hippie or a drug fiend or anything, but if you think about it, what I’m saying is true. It’s a symbol that brings us joy, warmth and familiarity even though it is, in fact, dead inside.
We finally got to the part of the forest where it was legal to cut your own tree. We pulled over and Dad got out, huffing and puffing in the snowy surroundings while he got the chainsaw out of the back of our station wagon. My mom followed him to pick the most pristine tree. I sat in the back seat with my sister, in silence except for the ringing in my ears from the jazzy carol’s absence. She finally got out to follow her parents. I intended to get out, I just like sitting in the car alone sometimes. I usually stay in there until my ears stop ringing, but I didn’t want my mother thinking I was troubled, so I moved myself out into the family scene. It was a real sight, alright. My dad trying to operate a chainsaw while wearing so many layers of clothes that he was nearly disabled. My mom and Megan watched, wincing as if that made the sound any less unpleasant, and standing a few more feet away than actually necessary. They were holding hands. They always did that. I think it was because I stopped holding Mom’s hand in public last year. But I guess, even though Megan’s older, she got to be the royal hand-holder now. She seemed to like it. That struck me as slightly creepy. My mom would occasionally shout out instructions to my father, as if he could even hear her. As if he’d listen if the chainsaw weren’t so loud. I stood off to the side, observing the scene from what was, frankly, as close to the car as possible without drawing attention to my standoffishness.
After a nearly hilarious but mostly depressing episode involving bungee cords and our newly dead tree, we were headed back. I was greeted at home by my own stupid face smiling uncomfortably back at me. My mom always displayed our annual Christmas card portrait in the foyer as if to remind us what we’re supposed to feel like. Or look like. I wasn’t sure. She made me sit in the middle of everyone this year. She dressed me a little nicer than she did Megan. I guess that was to make up for the fact that Megan’s smile didn’t look forced. She hair sprayed me. It was the Christmas Tree Effect.
I love writing stories about hipsters. What a comical bunch they are. I wrote this last month.
“It just that…sometimes I wonder….if we all have a Yoko.”
“What did you say?”
“Nevermind.” I pulled at the bottom of my corduroy vest and cleared my throat. I wondered why I had buttoned that vest closed. It felt like it was suffocating me now. I do the stupidest things for vanity’s sake.
We walked slowly to the next exhibit. Yet another big white room with a tall ceiling, but this one had large photos of body parts lining every wall. The photos were all zoomed in really closely so that you couldn’t tell what you were looking at unless you stared at it for a long time.
“I’ve had enough of this,” said
Marl, looking over his shoulder, probably looking for a giant picture of boobs. Ironically, that’s exactly what we were stopped in front of; it was just hard to tell. I guess that’s kind of the point. “This is nice and all, but Dana’s supposed to meet me in an hour and I don’t know what the traffic’s gonna be like, so we might considering taking off soon.”
“The museum was your idea.”
”Yeah, kid, I know, but I’m gettin’ real antsy here. The security guards are always looking at me. It’s like they think I’m about to piss all over a Van Gogh or something.”
“Your eloquence is…”
“I don’t need sarcasm from my kid brother,” he interrupted me, “You know I joke around sometimes. I’m just not in the mood for this place today.”
“Fine. Let’s go.” By the way, going to the museum wasn’t actually his idea. He had asked me a week before where we could go for a “culturally enriching experience”, no doubt for no reason other than to be able to stock up on clever anecdotes and minute accomplishments to impress Dana, or just to understand her stupid cultural references. She was always talking about her plans to move to Italy. I know, disgusting, right? Of course, I’m pretty sure Dana wouldn’t give a flying crap if Marl choked on his own vomit tomorrow. Anyway, when he asked me, I suggested The Getty because I’d been meaning to go. I hadn’t gone since I was a little kid and since Marl had a car, it seemed like a logical idea, because I can’t stand public transportation. It takes a long time to wash the thrift store smell out of my clothes after I buy them, and sitting on the bus only reinstates the homeless smell.
Dana didn’t show up to meet Marl. I have to admit I felt kind of bad for him. I couldn’t understand why he was always vying for her attention, but what did that matter? After all, he had a car.
I wrote this maybe about five months ago. Please don’t think it’s autobiographical, because it’s not. I swear.
I don’t floss. I know that’s gross or morally wrong or something, but I don’t. Whenever I used to floss I’d get a weird feeling that it was a total waste of time because my teeth are going to be knocked out someday anyway. And I don’t eat refined sugar because whenever I used to, I’d get a feeling that the government had laced it with cocaine and that’s why the United States is obsessed with sugar…and crack. I don’t read the newspaper anymore because whenever I used to I would get a feeling that everything I was reading was fabricated and highly biased. I haven’t touched meat with my bare hands in years. That’s for obvious reasons. I once heard that paper products are usually treated with whitening chemicals that can be hazardous to your health. I acted accordingly. When I hear the fire alarm, I take it seriously. I only buy clothing and furniture of solid colors so that everything matches and will for years to come. I don’t use contractions when I speak on the phone as to avoid confusion. I still watch TV sometimes, but I turn it off when the commercials come on and only turn it on again long enough to see if my program is back on after exactly two minutes. I will then repeat the process until I see something recognizable from my program, when it will remain on until the next commercial break. I don’t support computer companies because I believe they fund research for microchips meant for the heads of white suburban children who wander into the wrong neighborhoods. I haven’t traveled by plane since I was a child. Boat is logically and statistically safer.
I have but one constant in my life, and that is that hitting people feels good.
I wrote this a few months ago.
I looked at their eyes, darting frantically from one set to the other, looking for a hint at the way I should be feeling. The eyes weren’t looking back at me. One set was staring in the distance, fixed on the invisible face of her father, who had always been a disappointment. The other was looking at the ground, as could be expected, unsure of his stance. Suddenly we didn’t know each other. We were three strangers; hopeless unknown actors desperately looking for work, who had been haphazardly placed on the set of a fixed mid-morning talk show, and I was the only one without a script…and three, two, one…action.
It’s something comparable to having a pitcher of water poured on one’s head. It’s shocking at first, but once the shock subsides, water continues to pour and the wetted one wonders why the water is still coming out and just how large that pitcher is. The words poured on my head, and, as I continued to struggle for my acceptable reaction, I found out that, after nearly two decades of assuming I was made of flesh, I was, in fact, made of salt. I was corroding quickly and that wasn’t in the script…which still had not arrived, by the way.
And now we were beyond starving actors. We had lost all humanity. We had become monkeys in a zoo. It wasn’t a busy day at the zoo, but the sparse groups Eastern European tourists hadn’t failed to stop and gawk at the monkey cage. They enjoyed the novelty of the three monkeys playing in the corner. Of course, none had bothered to inspect the scene any closer. The third one was crying.
I struggled again to find my acceptable reaction. I wondered where the zookeeper was. Or the producer. Why was this water still pouring? Couldn’t they see that I was eroding violently?
But it didn’t stop. And that made for an awkward afternoon.
I wrote this two months ago.
I’m fascinated by the idea of him wearing all that angel’s hair. It’s fitting, really. Some people would call it ironic, but that’d be improper use of the word. His mother had died that day and he had been cutting Plexiglas in the garage when he received the phone call. He lain on the floor and cried. He sobbed for hours. He’d cry quietly and then there’d be a flash of a memory that would really stab him into sobbing again. Something mean he said to her once. Or maybe something Christ-like she’d done for him. Everything sweet and tender and loving came to his mind in waves. And all of the little wispy Plexiglas shavings snagged into his clothes as his mind went elsewhere. Out of the garage, out of Los Angeles County, out of his bright California and back to dusty Texas. He talked about it with his wife. He told his kids. The oldest first; he was understanding and concerned. Then the middle; he was comforting and wise. Then, finally, the youngest; I was quiet and apologetic. I didn’t know how else to be. I caught him post-Plexiglas, when he was stable enough to say the words. He had prepared himself to give comfort to me, although it would have been riddled comfort. But I didn’t need much, as I was mostly concerned with his thoughts. I could digress at this point and talk about how strange it is when those who taught you what’s right or wrong have fully come to accept what’s wrong as right, but that’s another story. And it’s not interesting or poetic, either. I wondered what he thought she was doing. I wondered what she was doing, but not with concern or worry or dread. More like curiosity. Because that part is a detail. The point is that she continues.
I wrote this in June of 2006. I can’t remember why. It’s short, but most of them are.
Somewhere in the world, a party is going on. Not like the kind i go to, but the kind everyone else does. The kind where the company is faceless after a few minutes, because it doesn’t really matter who they are, but just that they are, because you have to have people to have a party.
It’s one of those places that i could just walk into and assume that everyone is as numb as i am. i could just make myself comfortable on an old brown couch next to a man or girl as anonymous as i. We could bond the way old friends do, staring forward into space together. Silent out of necessity. That’s just how deep our love goes.
Then i suppose i would leave, but no one goes to a party with the thought of leaving. If they did, the idea of fun would be fleeting and sad. Luckily i know i can come back. Same time, same place. Tomorrow or the next day.
Look at this new blog.
