Please God, Make Me A Stone

I don't feel anything. I'm holding a hand, it's still warm - filled with a rapidly waning life. I don't feel anything. It's not that I don't care. I do. It's just that, well, it's that I'm... detached. I don't care. It's not my problem; not my life, but in a way, it is - only, I can't, I don't know. There is a love, an emotion, a something, and I should feel it.

I am a dragon, hard sleek lines on a dark night. I breathe fire and crash through suburbia taking what I want and leaving behind what's worthless. I'm a corporate climber, ruthless and cunning; planning my moves and crushing my opposition in the almost romantic light of my blazing fury. I am invincible. I. I - that's all there is to it. The Dragon, possibly the most powerful and romanticized beast that there is: the height of power, the peak of evolution; an indestructible, almost omnisciently intelligent, ruthless and very nearly immortal being. I could challenge a titan. I am the height of arrogance.

The hand fidgets. I could... if only, but... I want - I mean, I can't. I really can't, I knew better but I couldn't admit it. So I sit here. Dragons always seem to be lonesome creatures. They don't have allies. They don't have patriotism. They don't feel loss for their dead and dying countrymen. They don't give a damn. I don't give a damn, but that's not what I mean. The warmth in this hand is passing from one world to another, and I don't care - but I know I should, even though I can't. I see two figures: Time and Death, the immutable facts of life. Inevitability. They will push me aside like a fly, they have one thing I don't - understanding. I feel a sense of defeat, or despair. I disappear into another dimension - another time. You can't find me because I have become nothing, the sum of my emotions.

Facade

I'm hiding. Hiding beneath the guise of my insipid nature. Smiles. Laughter. Music. Noise. The smile hurts – they told me when I was young that if I made a face long enough I would be stuck with it. They told me that I should get along with others – that I should be nice; I put a smile on and it stuck just like they said it would. Whenever I go near people I smile, laugh, joke – whatever. The expression stuck because if it didn't they would call me maladjusted. Breathe, maintain the facade.

I keep a gun in the back of a drawer at home. Not to use, but sometimes it's comforting to just take it out late at night and feel the weight of it in my hand. It's behind the neatly stacked pile of lingerie that I keep so that everyone will think that I am hip and comfortable with showing off my figure. Sometimes I imagine shooting myself and how, if I had one, my lover would come in and hold my frail little body as all of the fluids bled out of it onto him and the floor. My detached spectral form would hover over the scene looking on in pleasant silence and realize for the first time that it was more than the fashion statements and the petite figure and ostensibly warm smile that someone was in love with – it was the person beneath. It's about this time that I put the gun back and crawl off to sleep. Because if I did shoot myself no one would come in to hold me. No one would love me. My spirit would wander – forever alone.

Late at night when I can't sleep I sometimes get up and get the gun that I keep in the underwear drawer and just sit there on the bed and hold it. The idea is therapeutic – it's a comfort to just think in the silence of a full moon with a weight in one's hand. Mom, you couldn't love me because I couldn't meet your standards, as hard as I tried. Dad – you abused me, and showed me how terrible the people around me could be. I always see the worst, and try to find good as I do, there is always something waiting to jump out and ruin the image. I've learned very successfully to lie, to tell people that I like them, to go on dates and put on a face. In the end it's always the same though, I find out the worst of everyone, I'm frightened of them; I tell them, we're just not compatible, and then I go home and hold the gun. I remember that nobody cares; but I still keep searching. I want to be wrong; so badly.

At the End

He sat in the chair, gazing across the ocean of piano keys. There is a sound; a single sound, as of the scratching of voices slowly eating through the floorboards. Flashing eons of lights and stars had passed overhead; glowing orbs burned the skin from his bones, but always in silence. Now there was sound! It was like that of a single note, the ominous hum in the pit before the show- the sound of darkness... anticipation. It grows closer, and it splits! A symphonic medley wraps slowly around his toes and begins to climb upwards; it grasps at his calves - picking up speed as it goes. As it climbs through him his blood flows with it, gaining speed, forcing his frail heart to the point of breaking; it pushes past. The ecstasy shoots down his arms in bolts- it is no longer a sound but orchestral movements, convulsions of beauty compacted into mere moments - an indescribable and awesome experience. In a second it is gone, taking him with it to join in the movement - forever.

Ham Sandwich

So there I was, eating a ham sandwich and GOD WAS IT A TERRIBLE SANDWICH but I fucking ate it man I ate it all, bones and everything. Ham sandwiches shouldn't even have bones, but it did; I ate them. But god I don't even know why, and how they stuck into my teeth, shit – all of the bones.

A Highway Man - In Verse

...and into the dark night he silently ducked,
burdened by the ill gained raiments of a thousand broken hearted feminine souls.
As the wind washed through his thick, water darkened curls he let them go,
one by one, into the night. Into the wind
the storm brought them to itself, until the gently raining sky was
wrapped in the warmth of a myriad of kerchiefs, and then they were gone,
lost in the last darkness of the waning night and the rising steam of a fresh new day.

Into the shadowed window he slipped, not troubled by the fey weather
and unheeding of the consequences of his actions.
While thunder pealed and shook the panes of the windows,
he stood over her, watching, as the breath gently slipped
from her breast whilst she rode across the waves of midnight dreams.
Ungloving his hand, he removed from beneath his jacket
a single rosebud.
And placing it on her pillow he is gone.
Lost in the effervescence of the mist enshrouded night.

It had been there when she woke,
an object not of abstract terror or love
but of tranquility, pinned now to her vestments.
Before her a contingent of faces stared,
troubled by her lack of gaiety.
Troubled by her long face, in this time of pleasant reminiscence.
A man's desire for her acquiescence, a dish gone cold before it touched her lips.
Harried, she removed herself from the gathering,
terrified of the direness of her plight.

Up from the street he sprang, calling to a halt the coach.
In a word and an action he freed a brace of pistols, calling to his intentions,
the attentions of the passengers.
Softly he assures the lady patron of his wish for her wellbeing,
whilst still removing from her a scarf and purloining the coin purses of the wealthy.
Gently still he smiles,
a man both roguish and endearing despite his leveled weapons,
and with a nod and a gesture they are on their way again,
dumbstruck by the gentleman brigand.

Beneath thin, twisted and hoary boughs he sleeps,
protected from the hounds by the scent of fresh blossoms and flowing water.
the winds pass by and drape yellow flower-bedecked branches around him,
shielding him from the eyes of the passers-by.
As the sun sets, he starts up, awakened by the call of night,
and leaving, he makes his way to town, followed by dusky eyes.
Silently he stands in a darkened deadened road,
waiting for the lighted windows of those last to bed to fade to black,
and then his work begins.

A silence pervades from under her door,
candles have burned down, and from within she no longer stirs.
He stands, abject from her warm affections,
disinherited from what is his by right.
Into an ill-lit window's dark recesses he steps,
eyes burning white with hate for whatever stalks quietly the streets below.
The cool grip of metal in his hand,
a portent for the coming end and joyful resolution;
to take back that which the terrible creature had so violently stolen away.

She stood 'gainst the night, enshrined in darkness.
At darkened cobbles and moonlit ways she stares,
pining for an answer, a way out; bidding her night-born lover to spirit her away.
He watches her closely, still clad in formal wear,
waiting to see for what she longs so dearly.
Then in the darkness, from without the shadows steps,
the Highwayman.
His pockets laden with other's bits of precious.
A fleeting glimpse and then he's gone.

Baying dogs called through the dells, singing to the hills of their chase.
Through mired plains and overgrown fens they ran,
ever only just behind the man they pursue;
drawn ever onward by the strange and changing scent
of a thousand different perfumes and the plundered goods he left behind.
Through broken gullies and bracken entangled woods,
still they hound him, ever untiring and stalwart in their goal.
In tangles, briers and thorns they race, ever drawn through the treacherous milieu
His last escape: a self-served stroke, a cynic soul fled to rob them yet

Blank pages of a journal flap in the slight breeze from the open balcony door.
Sunlight plays across the room, cast oddly by a mirror searching for an image to reflect.
Iron railings stand dutifully; a symbol of safety only to those who desire it.
She'd leaped past them, plummeting into the depths of time, eyes no longer fixed on fate.
She lay against a background of roses,
writ on her a face - a look of pity and tragedy; a single scarf clutched in her stony grip.
A sad spirit, lost and forever wandering in bracken-tangled woods and dusky twilit plains.

Lover

What I see of you? What I see are the spaces between your toes. I see the curvature of your earlobes and the hairs that are in your nose, and ears. I see the white untanned skin of your scalp beneath your hair. Where the muscles pull across your shoulders and grasp the bones in your back – I see that. I see behind your knees and the callouses on your heels. The arches on on your feet and the carefully rounded nails are the things that give you character – the things I love about you.

It's a Magical World

It's a dusty little room, maybe a few cobwebs in the corner, an old worn chair... It's not a story about me, I think that You should know that. If You know anything about me You know that I don't have an old worn out chair – it's probably leather or something, something that can wear well. You would also know that I don't leave rooms messy – that's how you know that this isn't a story about me. Regardless of the function of the narrator in this story, a man sits in that old worn out chair; he sits there not doing anything at all. He just sits. Sitting is a thing that is usually done in conjunction with something, You sit to eat, You sit to work or type- something, You sit to read, etc. The thing that is quite important is that this man is just sitting, not working or eating or even thinking; he sits, and sitting defines him completely at this point in time. There was a time when he was probably thinking. I'm sure that he had very important things to think about at one point in time – and in due course I will tell You about what it was that was so important – many things have passed already, and for our gentleman in the worn out chair what's important is that the events have all transpired and all that's left is nothing.

It is the irksome nature of the earth to create the scenes most beautiful when everyone could care less. You would be aware of the irony of mother nature's actions because I helped you to look at her a different way than everyone else; and so it is in this manner that it leaves a peculiar combination of silence and sunlight creeping across the floor, ushering in a new and beautiful sunrise and stirring through the little trails of dust that lead away from anything that breaks the uniform flatness of the floor. Normal people might not find this scene beautiful (and I feel like I'm getting hung up on this word - beautiful – the way that it leaves the tongue, and hangs about in the air for just a second and then disappears into nothing; the self-defining nature of the word is a mystery to me); normal people would find it boring, or maybe slightly disturbing that a man would sit in the dust accumulated over the years – but You wouldn't, I know that You could see something more. I always described things in too much detail, You said; I always tried to find the right word – or words; but here is a scene of a man who sits. There are no words anymore, there are only ideas. You see, I think I finally understand.

There are few things so lavish as the experience of meeting a fantastic and new person. The joy of spending an evening together, just talking, thinking and maybe doing nothing at all. So it was with our character, he met someone new, they took late-night walks and told each other everything that they hoped in the whole world, getting to know one another, to realize each others idealisms, to evolve and see the world from new eyes. This is the time that characters like ours don't keep there eyes open, they close them and savor the moment – they live in the magic of the moment; blissfulness really does lie in ignorance. But everything is okay, each breath is fresh, the air crisp and clean - joy comes easily. We accept things as they are, no problems insurmountable, no challenge too much. This is a time when our characters realize that they can both share in the ecstasy of living. They can find true pleasure in the trivial and contentment in the quiet. They were young, they were stupid – and they were happy.

There comes a point when a certain understanding is reached between people (if only we could hold onto the magic just a little longer – the slight uncertainty, the knowledge that we don't know everything about one another, the mystery and the joy of unraveling that mystery...). So it goes. Our character having come to this point, of course, realized it and made every effort to appease and endear his lover. It was the small things that counted – like tea and toast as she rose from bed, being careful to pick up after himself, even if his work was long and hard, taking the time to listen, going to the store together even though she didn't need help, having time. Not so much as to be oppressive, just enough to encourage, and propagate the idea that he was there for her, that her happiness came first in his life, that what she needed most would always be important to him. As two people grow close together though, or at least in the case of our gentleman and his lover, the little differences are finally uncovered. Maybe, he likes things done in just such a way, maybe the music she likes appalls him, maybe the way that she hums off-key gets on his nerves. It is still the peak of happiness though, and the gentleman lets a few things go, or she doesn't want to do everything his way, and to this he concedes and they try to move on, but the differences are exposed the idealism's are seen for what they actually are and a rift is there, it is small and easy to traverse but its quiet testimony stands implacable. You have to choose to cross the river, or chasm or whatever it might be – or choose not to; you cannot stand in the middle of a chasm.

And so we find ourselves back in the little room with the dusty floor and the old worn out chair. But this is before we left him last, this is the part were he is thinking to himself in a very concentrated way, his mind is unraveling the mystery and he sees the answer to the riddle. This is the part where he realizes that he did try to change himself, that he was willing to do the things he needed to make things work but the problem wasn't really in that, was it? The problem is that it was a one-sided assertion. You see, You couldn't release Your idealisms, You couldn't evolve and change. So our gentleman has realized that it is in fact You that cannot love, not him, but in this realization he knows that if he has to try again with someone else he will be trying to subversively change them, to make them realize that their needs are not the most important and that that same principle applies to him. The only problem is that by having a direction from the very start, by having goals and plans – the magic is dead; it can never happen. So what our gentleman realizes is that You have killed the sweet and innocent child inside him – that he is forever changed. And now we are back to the part where he just sits, and if you could see him it might give you pause, and once, maybe just once you would think about the others in the world; but I know better. The sound of your packing, and your moving and your cursing and discontent are gone now; there is silence – a world without you – a beautiful thing. What it all boils down to, what I really want to say to you is that you're just too dumb to figure it all out.

Strange Company

I'm sitting at the table sipping a wine that I don't really care for- it's fruity, sweet, overpoweringly simple and inelegant. I'm here with my roommates- talking (yes, me talking) with both of them; usually I only hang out with one at a time, they're too much for me - a pairing of convenience more than desire. The music that is playing is not to my taste; always something vaguely irritating, (I had a conversation with my friend once; he said that similar music interest should be a requirement for roommates) like country or dance-type stereotypical music. Somehow, though, it all feels right - the idea that we've reached the end, that we're moving on but we are comfortable with each other. It's this very weird feeling of everything not fitting all at once, and when we all realize it- it makes so much sense. Then we go our separate ways, the feelings lost irrevocably; we'll have forgot by morning.

Search for Meaning

I start looking in the kitchen. I look through the cupboards and above the fridge. I throw everything on the lazy Susan out onto the counter - then I pull the fridge out and look behind it. I move to the living room next; the TV is the first to move to the center of the room. Every inch of the cabinet that the TV sits in is thoroughly examined; empty CD cases and old videos are thrown into a pile revealing nothing. The hallway is bare; the closets never had anything put into them in the first place - I look at their emptiness. The storage room is a lost cause; I ignore it like always. The bathroom yields an old twisty toothbrush behind the garbage under the sink, and hairballs behind the toilet. In my bedroom I search under the bed; I clean there meticulously and often because of my allergies - but you never know; nothing. I pull clothing out of the closet, searching through the pockets as I go; there's a rubber band. Finally I pull out the books and start flipping through the pages, midway through I find an old letter that I was writing to someone that I knew I would never deliver it to; it's a sappy sort of letter exposing the ridiculous feelings I was having at the time. I read the letter over and over again - then I put everything away. Twisty toothbrush, rubber band, and a letter full of true yet sappy sentiments - I call the day a win.

Hope

She asked me what I hoped for, it was issued almost as a challange; I said I didn't hope - because they were never realized. Later on that night I asked myself what I hoped for, but in my mind I changed the question to what I wanted to hear: what I wanted. Want is more justifiable than hope, I think; we want numerous things, but we don't expect to get them - hope comes with expectations, and expectations often come with pain. I want a job that I like, I want a house, I want an attractive wife and kids but I'm not willing to set them on a pedestal. The wants I have are so much that I fear that if I actively pursue them I will only find myself crushed in the end. By not hoping for them, though, I crush myself - here and now.

Apartments

It's a hole in the wall room; there's barely enough floor space for my ragged mattress, and chair - let alone the pile of dirty clothing to come. There is an ancient gas stove against one wall which appears to have functioned more as a desk than an actual stove. There's no sink in the bathroom, which is a closet in the back of the room, but there is a sink next to the stove - apparently they share. It's an old loft-style apartment deep inside of the city: the actual loft being barely large enough for the assortment of broken and disused odds and ends that were shoved there upon some unfortunate's initial move in, and left there long since his departure. A series of three old wood-framed, single-pane, moldy windows are midway up the wall, providing a view of a slow-moving and noisy traffic below and other equally lousy apartments across the street. This is the only apartment that I have seen today that I can actually afford.

The landlord is a haggard old lady who looks like she has better things to do than actually trying to sell something as doomed as this apartment to a young student like myself. She was reluctant to show me the room when I had asked previously - so it is my assumption that the person before only signed the lease because they were too ignorant to have a look first; it was probably some kid just out of home excited to find something within the budget of their first or second job. The tour, of course, only took about a minute; long enough for her to show me that the toilet flushed, the windows could be opened for fresh air,and the lights and stove could be used at will. She was asking $375 a month for this, plus gas, water, and electric. To her surprise I slowly nod my head. She beckons me to follow her back to her office and then congenially begins to chat about the local this and that which make this apartment such an incredibly located place; the mere fact that the place is no longer going to sit unused has made her day - and for that I am thanked with dull incessant chatter. I inquire about public utilities only to be informed that I can put a maximum of two mid-size garbage bags out per week. I roughly calculate that I can clear the left-overs out in about a month to a month and a half and sign the lease.

My possessions, which all fit quite comfortably in my economy car include: a rolled up old futon mattress, a small dissembled slat rocking chair, a pile of clothing, a stack of books, a broom, and two stained pots that I primarily used to catch the drips in the last place that I lived. It takes me half-an-hour to move into the apartment. It takes an hour to haphazardly sort through the stuff that was left behind and decide that all of it is garbage, then get it into bags leaned up against the wall by the entry way. That finished I sit down in my chair and begin to read. Of course, I've read this book before; I've read it several times, so it doesn't have to much appeal right now. I set it down and climb into the loft so that I can have a better view through the windows and across the street. For a while I just look at the old brick building, not at anything in particular. Eventually my eyes are caught by a window in which the blinds are open. There are plants inside the window, catching what little sun they can, there is also an empty chair - and the evidence of a very clean apartment. None of the other windows have the blinds drawn, so I make a note of this particular window before going in search of something to eat.

Questions

I've been wondering for a while now if I should change my ways. Would it be a good thing to stop being who I am, and who I'm comfortable with- to leave my shell and step out into the real world? What could I accomplish if I was willing to let myself go? For the longest time I have been comfortable with who I am. I have been comfortable with a personality type that allows me to make relatively accurate predictions about what will happen to me, but what if I just let things happen? What if I let go of the mediocrity and the extremely well-guarded and tentative optimism? What if I let myself dream, and hope; live? Would my friends like me more, or would they be confused and bewildered; have they grown to like the cynic that I have become, or does it bore them? I still wonder.

Crying

It's dark. The clock reads 3:20 AM. The sounds of stifled sobbing are coming from the apartment above mine. You don't wake up at this time of night and just start crying – something happens, something that took time to build up; somehow a monster was created in advance and finally, somehow managed to rear its head at this frightful hour. Why? How? These are the questions that tear through my mind as I lie in my bed watching the hands on the clock tick. Maybe tomorrow I should stop by – just to make sure that she is alright, but damn; I don't even know who she is. I guess I could pretend to be slightly annoyed about the noise, or I could say that I was awakened by her crying and just wanted to make sure everything is alright... Finally a realization strikes me; I am caught up in a series of events that I'm not even a part of. How is it that I find myself so attached to this mystery person? Why am I willing to go so far out of my way just to see that she's okay? Maybe it was her fault, maybe it was just a huge mix up – a mistake; only one way to find out, though. It isn't really that far out of the way.