[I keep coming back to this poem because it picks up a pretty groovy rhythm towards the end, and also because I can't resist a good pun. I recall that I had love in mind when I wrote it, but I suspect that it makes almost no sense.]
---
we do surely trust desire,
forced to walk this cold old road
forgetting how the heart will tire
of gravel offered a la mode
that French fashion found its place
in cavities and old boutiques,
leaving hearts without a trace
of sympathy for flushed pink cheeks
sticky with vanilla cream,
brain freeze eyes that flow with tears,
red meat soles that ooze and gleam
raw from pebbles, hopes and fears,
mercy cannot live for those
that French fashion comes and goes
May 23, 2010
Nature Beats Nurture
[This is a dialogue that I wrote for my high school writing class. Thank God I lightened up a bit for once.]
---
Teenaged NATHAN lies on his bed reading The Economist. Presently his MOTHER bursts through the door. She is meticulously dressed, unnervingly energetic and utterly terrifying.
She rushes over to him and places her hand on his chest. His body contracts in a gesture of profound discomfort as she focuses. Having made her diagnosis, she retreats.
She looks at him sternly. He recoils with a mixture of fear and defiance. She kisses him on the forehead in the same stern manner; he winces.
She lingers briefly, then pulls away and extracts a compact mirror from her purse, examining the damage to her lipstick. He disgustedly tries to rid his forehead of the gummy mess.
She absently starts picking through his scattered belongings; Nathan tries to distract her before she delves into a full investigation.
She dashes around the room, scooping up the detritus on the floor and piling it onto his bed; Nathan watches in revulsion.
There is a tense beat in the wake of her terror before Mother resumes her business with particular vigor. Nathan gulps and speaks up.
Nathan shudders and recovers from his nausea, breathing deeply.
She turns on the vacuum, which is extraordinarily loud.
She almost smirks. He glares. Silence.
She leers triumphantly and pats her son on the head.
She collects her purse and walks out briskly, leaving the vacuum behind along with a spotless floor and a massive mess on his bed. Nathan is frozen in a furious rigor; suddenly he grabs a shoe from the pile on his bed and flings it at the door, slamming it shut. He breathes heavily with anger and then violently picks up his magazine, flipping through it quickly before throwing it away as well. He goes to his desk and tears it apart until he finds a pair of scissors, which he grabs along with a chunky Polaroid camera on his way out of the room.
He arrives in the dimly lit bathroom, holding the scissors dangerously in his hand. Breathing deeply, he looks in the mirror and considers his hair, which softly falls in his eyes. When his breathing relaxes, he calmly begins to cut it off, working slowly but mercilessly until only a patchy mess is left. His electric shaver reduces the hair to a military buzz, and then he finally takes a razor to his whole scalp until it gleams, bald and pale.
Stunned by his work, he puts the razor down and exchanges it with the camera, which he holds above his head. There is a flash and a mechanical groan as the camera captures the picture. He tugs on the white plastic, relinquishes the blank photograph and shakes it patiently. When the image has developed, he peers at it closely. After a sluggish moment of recognition, his face is slowly overtaken by a wide, manic smile.
---
Teenaged NATHAN lies on his bed reading The Economist. Presently his MOTHER bursts through the door. She is meticulously dressed, unnervingly energetic and utterly terrifying.
NATHAN: Knock first, please.
MOTHER: Weren’t you just downstairs?
NATHAN: No.
MOTHER: I thought I saw you on the couch as I pulled into the driveway.
NATHAN: No, I’ve been here since you left.
MOTHER: Let me feel your heart.
She rushes over to him and places her hand on his chest. His body contracts in a gesture of profound discomfort as she focuses. Having made her diagnosis, she retreats.
MOTHER: Racing. You ran up here just now.
She looks at him sternly. He recoils with a mixture of fear and defiance. She kisses him on the forehead in the same stern manner; he winces.
MOTHER: (strangely dreamy) Why must you run away from me, sweet?
She lingers briefly, then pulls away and extracts a compact mirror from her purse, examining the damage to her lipstick. He disgustedly tries to rid his forehead of the gummy mess.
MOTHER: Come say hello to your Grummy.
NATHAN: I don’t want to say hello to Grummy.
MOTHER: She’s your grandmother and she loves you very much. (She definitively snaps her compact closed.)
NATHAN: She smells like fish.
MOTHER: Yes, well, I’ve started her on a fish diet.
NATHAN: Why does she need a fish diet?
MOTHER: She was ohm-deficient.
NATHAN: Ohms?
MOTHER: Yes, she didn’t have enough of them.
NATHAN: Ohms measure resistance in an electrical current.
MOTHER: Omegas, yes, she didn’t have nearly enough.
NATHAN: You mean Omega-3.
MOTHER: (condescending) Yes, Nathan, Omega-3.
NATHAN: Are you sure she needs the fish diet?
MOTHER: She’s my mother and I know what’s best for her.
She absently starts picking through his scattered belongings; Nathan tries to distract her before she delves into a full investigation.
NATHAN: Where’s Dad?
MOTHER: Oh, he’s out on his bicycle again.
NATHAN: But he’s been gone since 7 this morning.
MOTHER: Well, your father’s a solitary man and we have to respect that. (After a pause, she suddenly snaps out of her absent state and is visibly disgusted by what she sees.) Nathan, your room is filthy.
NATHAN: (defensive) It’s not that bad.
MOTHER: Don’t be ridiculous; your clothes are all over the floor. (She picks up a baby-blue polo shirt sadly.) And I spent so much time finding these for you. (She lays the shirt lovingly on his bed, looks around, and smiles assuredly.) I’ll just do a quick vacuum.
NATHAN: What? No!
MOTHER: (She exits to get the vacuum and raises her voice.) Cleanliness is a part of life, Nathan; you’ll have to get used to it sooner or later.
NATHAN: But I like my room this way!
MOTHER: (Dragging the vacuum into the room) Nonsense.
She dashes around the room, scooping up the detritus on the floor and piling it onto his bed; Nathan watches in revulsion.
NATHAN: I was adopted, wasn't I?
MOTHER: Nathan, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you.
NATHAN: I must have been adopted.
MOTHER: You're my own flesh and blood, my sweet.
NATHAN: Bullshit.
MOTHER: (whipping around and snarling) Language.
There is a tense beat in the wake of her terror before Mother resumes her business with particular vigor. Nathan gulps and speaks up.
NATHAN: (intimidated but intent) I want to see my birth certificate.She goes to her purse, which she has set by his bed. She picks out her wallet, peruses its folds and finally finds a small worn photo, which she hands to him.
MOTHER: (dismissively) I don’t know where it is.
NATHAN: Then there’s no proof.
MOTHER: Yes, there is.
NATHAN: What, then?
MOTHER: I had your father take a picture as you were crowning.
NATHAN: As I was what?
MOTHER: Here, sweetheart.
NATHAN: (looking at the picture distractedly) Mother, the fact still stands that, as far as I know, there is no legal evidence of – (Turning the photo a couple of times and peering in closely, he suddenly understands its content; his eyes widen in horror and he retches, ridding himself of the photo with dire urgency.) Jesus Christ, you keep that in your wallet?!
MOTHER: (plugging in the vacuum) Giving birth is a very special joy, Nathan.
NATHAN: (hysterical) What is wrong with you?!
MOTHER: (miffed) It’s a miracle of nature.
Nathan shudders and recovers from his nausea, breathing deeply.
NATHAN: (uncomfortable but determined) That could be anyone’s - vagina.
She turns on the vacuum, which is extraordinarily loud.
MOTHER: WHAT?
NATHAN: Goddamnit – THAT COULD BE ANYONE’S VAGINA.
MOTHER: (vacuuming) NO, YOU CAN SEE MY FACE IN THE CORNER.
NATHAN: WHAT? (He tentatively picks up the photo and looks carefully.) Oh. God. (He turns the photo over, looking ill again. He clears his throat.) BUT THAT COULD BE CHRISTINE BEING BORN.
MOTHER: WHAT??
NATHAN: (screaming) THAT COULD BE CHRISTINE’S HEAD!
MOTHER: NO, IT’S YOURS. (She turns off the vacuum.)
NATHAN: AM I JUST - (Realizing with some chagrin that he doesn’t have to yell anymore) Am I just supposed to believe that?
MOTHER: You don’t have to. That’s your birthmark… see? (She gestures to the picture.) Right in the middle of your scalp.
She almost smirks. He glares. Silence.
NATHAN: (bitterly) Fine.
She leers triumphantly and pats her son on the head.
MOTHER: I love you, sweet darling.
She collects her purse and walks out briskly, leaving the vacuum behind along with a spotless floor and a massive mess on his bed. Nathan is frozen in a furious rigor; suddenly he grabs a shoe from the pile on his bed and flings it at the door, slamming it shut. He breathes heavily with anger and then violently picks up his magazine, flipping through it quickly before throwing it away as well. He goes to his desk and tears it apart until he finds a pair of scissors, which he grabs along with a chunky Polaroid camera on his way out of the room.
He arrives in the dimly lit bathroom, holding the scissors dangerously in his hand. Breathing deeply, he looks in the mirror and considers his hair, which softly falls in his eyes. When his breathing relaxes, he calmly begins to cut it off, working slowly but mercilessly until only a patchy mess is left. His electric shaver reduces the hair to a military buzz, and then he finally takes a razor to his whole scalp until it gleams, bald and pale.
Stunned by his work, he puts the razor down and exchanges it with the camera, which he holds above his head. There is a flash and a mechanical groan as the camera captures the picture. He tugs on the white plastic, relinquishes the blank photograph and shakes it patiently. When the image has developed, he peers at it closely. After a sluggish moment of recognition, his face is slowly overtaken by a wide, manic smile.
May 18, 2010
Blessed
[Damn... It's really hard to write a villanelle. In my case, it's also really hard to spell "villanelle".]
---
Blessed are we to know the blues
Divine to live amongst decay
Better still to love and lose
Charmed are we to wear a bruise
Let the blows fall where they may
Blessed are we to know the blues
Glorious for us to choose
Blood instead of heartless gray
Better still to love and lose
Marvelous to find a muse
In our pain and harsh dismay
Blessed are we to know the blues
Sweet it is to show tattoos,
Bidding all our wounds to stay
Better still to love and lose
Beautifully we do refuse
Anesthetic day by day
Blessed are we to know the blues
Better still to love and lose
---
Blessed are we to know the blues
Divine to live amongst decay
Better still to love and lose
Charmed are we to wear a bruise
Let the blows fall where they may
Blessed are we to know the blues
Glorious for us to choose
Blood instead of heartless gray
Better still to love and lose
Marvelous to find a muse
In our pain and harsh dismay
Blessed are we to know the blues
Sweet it is to show tattoos,
Bidding all our wounds to stay
Better still to love and lose
Beautifully we do refuse
Anesthetic day by day
Blessed are we to know the blues
Better still to love and lose
No Mysteries
[There's poetry here, but the context is so sparse that there's barely any way for anyone but me to see it. I've tended to assume that the reader can detect my brilliance shining between the lines of my writing, even when I've barely provided any lines at all. How annoying.]
---
“Fair enough,” she said.
Magically, she could taste everything: the molten liquor of adrenaline, the swirling saltiness of fear, the spiced chocolate of passion, and a vague but strong bitterness. She tasted the threadbare carpet below her feet and the hushed air above her head; with her navel, she tasted steel.
They stood nose-to-nose, iris-to-iris. Their eyes were the same color, a greenish blue found in choppy ocean waters. The duel of their minds left little to be said aloud.
When the gun trembled in his hand, just once, she felt a sweet and sour taste that she didn’t understand. His eyes revealed nothing as he steadied himself with icy resignation. She inhaled and he exhaled. Both of their watches had stopped.
He pulled the trigger. She was flooded with the taste of water. Lead met bile, love met hate.
---
I don't even know who I like less“I want to cause you more pain than you’ve ever felt,” he said.
You or me- "Mysteries" by Yeah Yeah Yeahs
“Fair enough,” she said.
Magically, she could taste everything: the molten liquor of adrenaline, the swirling saltiness of fear, the spiced chocolate of passion, and a vague but strong bitterness. She tasted the threadbare carpet below her feet and the hushed air above her head; with her navel, she tasted steel.
They stood nose-to-nose, iris-to-iris. Their eyes were the same color, a greenish blue found in choppy ocean waters. The duel of their minds left little to be said aloud.
When the gun trembled in his hand, just once, she felt a sweet and sour taste that she didn’t understand. His eyes revealed nothing as he steadied himself with icy resignation. She inhaled and he exhaled. Both of their watches had stopped.
He pulled the trigger. She was flooded with the taste of water. Lead met bile, love met hate.
May 16, 2010
The Pantomime Artist
[This one is shoved pretty damn far up its own ass, and the ending is pretty damn weak, but damned if I don't think it's pretty. I've been editing the whole thing in an attempt to plush it up, but it's easy to distinguish the original writing by its brutally choppy scansion... I was pretty pleased with that sort of style back in the day.]
---
When I was nineteen, I got a small tattoo and moved into a smoking dorm. I met a balding screenwriter in film school and quickly I became the type of girl who ends up with unattractive men, hanging off of their fingers and wearing sundresses without bras. On summer nights I’d sleep over at their bungalows when their wives were gone, and I’d stand on the bed and stop the ceiling fan with my hand so the sticky air would be still. I shared my weed with them and we went to dinner parties stoned, looking like we were deeply in love.
When I was five, I arbitrarily decided that my one dream was to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Before that dream faded completely from my heart, I went into a relationship with a man rich enough to take me to Paris, and we didn't speak a word as our plane drifted over the ocean. The afternoon was gray when we finally reached the tower, and I stood directly under it, looking up into its dark skeleton and shivering in the chill of its unfriendly shadow. Clutching my wool coat tight around me, I climbed the steps to the top. I looked out over the city and the river. My cheeks were numb and I smelled pigeon shit. At the bottom, a black boy jingled souvenir keychains on a metal ring. He fixed his eyes so firmly upon me that I could feel them inside of me, like a pair of cold marbles in the bottom of my gut. A shudder ran through my spine, and I handed him a bill, walking away empty-handed.
When I was twenty-seven, my younger sister was in a car accident. After I got the call, I ran until I found her, strangely still amidst the chaos around her. I kept up with the gurney as it sped through the hallways, but I couldn't hear anything, and I couldn't see where I was going; all I could do was stare at her face. Her features were crushed, and I tried desperately to recognize her, but all I saw was blood. I held her hand, and it felt like a baby mouse inside of mine. Suddenly the hall ended, so I let go and she went through swinging doors and died. I had gotten back together with the screenwriter then. He proposed after eight months, and we were engaged for two before I left him. I moved away and spent hours sitting in front of my laptop writing by candlelight, trying to describe exactly how my sister’s face looked before she died. Two years later, I finished a semi-autobiographical screenplay. One agent, a delicate British woman, said that the script just wasn’t realistic. While watching the small way her pale lips moved, I realized that writers don’t know anything except the inside of their own skulls. Once I left my own head, I could only flatter reality.
I never forgot that, but I kept writing. When I was thirty, I had learned that reality alone wasn’t enough to satisfy me.
---
When I was nineteen, I got a small tattoo and moved into a smoking dorm. I met a balding screenwriter in film school and quickly I became the type of girl who ends up with unattractive men, hanging off of their fingers and wearing sundresses without bras. On summer nights I’d sleep over at their bungalows when their wives were gone, and I’d stand on the bed and stop the ceiling fan with my hand so the sticky air would be still. I shared my weed with them and we went to dinner parties stoned, looking like we were deeply in love.
When I was five, I arbitrarily decided that my one dream was to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Before that dream faded completely from my heart, I went into a relationship with a man rich enough to take me to Paris, and we didn't speak a word as our plane drifted over the ocean. The afternoon was gray when we finally reached the tower, and I stood directly under it, looking up into its dark skeleton and shivering in the chill of its unfriendly shadow. Clutching my wool coat tight around me, I climbed the steps to the top. I looked out over the city and the river. My cheeks were numb and I smelled pigeon shit. At the bottom, a black boy jingled souvenir keychains on a metal ring. He fixed his eyes so firmly upon me that I could feel them inside of me, like a pair of cold marbles in the bottom of my gut. A shudder ran through my spine, and I handed him a bill, walking away empty-handed.
When I was twenty-seven, my younger sister was in a car accident. After I got the call, I ran until I found her, strangely still amidst the chaos around her. I kept up with the gurney as it sped through the hallways, but I couldn't hear anything, and I couldn't see where I was going; all I could do was stare at her face. Her features were crushed, and I tried desperately to recognize her, but all I saw was blood. I held her hand, and it felt like a baby mouse inside of mine. Suddenly the hall ended, so I let go and she went through swinging doors and died. I had gotten back together with the screenwriter then. He proposed after eight months, and we were engaged for two before I left him. I moved away and spent hours sitting in front of my laptop writing by candlelight, trying to describe exactly how my sister’s face looked before she died. Two years later, I finished a semi-autobiographical screenplay. One agent, a delicate British woman, said that the script just wasn’t realistic. While watching the small way her pale lips moved, I realized that writers don’t know anything except the inside of their own skulls. Once I left my own head, I could only flatter reality.
I never forgot that, but I kept writing. When I was thirty, I had learned that reality alone wasn’t enough to satisfy me.
Jenna Everyday
[This is really just a meditation on beauty, and my main goal for this story is to clarify that insight, but it could certainly stand some detailing as well.]
---
Jenna was plain in the eyes and tender in the mouth, her lips sweetly upturned, her hair fashionable as a hat. When the top button of her cardigan slipped out of its buttonhole – and it always did – a slice of her marzipan skin glowed in the sunlight and every living creature within a mile longed to marry her.
Jenna went on one thousand dates. Whoever was lucky enough would meet her at her apartment on a partly cloudy day and walk with her four blocks to the little café on the corner. If all the benevolent forces of heaven were aligned perfectly on this particular day, Jenna might extend her small hand and her date would timidly take it, scarcely believing the fact of their touch.
Jenna would pick a table by the window, and she would sit in the only wooden chair in the restaurant. She would put her napkin in her lap and order a Shirley Temple from the waiter with the lisp, and when he brought it to her she would pluck the cherry from the bottom of the glass with her fork and place it on her plate. As her date ate their meal, she would suck on the cherry until it disintegrated, then tie the stem into a knot with her tongue.
With the gentle harmonies of her voice, Jenna would make conversation. She would talk about the weather; she said she hoped it would clear up, even though that was a lie. She would tell the joke about the two rabbits that her mother used to tell her as a child, and her date would laugh nicely at the punch line even though it wasn’t funny anymore. She would say that in some languages there is no way to say “goodbye”, only “we’ll meet again”.
Did you know that? she would ask.
No, her date would say, I didn’t.
Jenna might ask her date what their favorite color was, and when her date asked her the same she would think for a while, chewing her finger thoughtfully. Then she would smile and say yellow, just like the rose on this table.
But the conversation would always die out after about twenty-three minutes when her date ran out of words and surrendered to rapture, and there would be a silence so great that Jenna could hear the movements of each fork in the restaurant. Jenna would play with her fingers, her eyelashes casting shadows over the makeup on her face. When she looked up her eyes shone.
Do I bore you? she would ask, achingly.
Then all the forks in the restaurant would pause, and a sparrow would fly by the window where they sat, and her date would fall twofold in love.
---
Jenna was plain in the eyes and tender in the mouth, her lips sweetly upturned, her hair fashionable as a hat. When the top button of her cardigan slipped out of its buttonhole – and it always did – a slice of her marzipan skin glowed in the sunlight and every living creature within a mile longed to marry her.
Jenna went on one thousand dates. Whoever was lucky enough would meet her at her apartment on a partly cloudy day and walk with her four blocks to the little café on the corner. If all the benevolent forces of heaven were aligned perfectly on this particular day, Jenna might extend her small hand and her date would timidly take it, scarcely believing the fact of their touch.
Jenna would pick a table by the window, and she would sit in the only wooden chair in the restaurant. She would put her napkin in her lap and order a Shirley Temple from the waiter with the lisp, and when he brought it to her she would pluck the cherry from the bottom of the glass with her fork and place it on her plate. As her date ate their meal, she would suck on the cherry until it disintegrated, then tie the stem into a knot with her tongue.
With the gentle harmonies of her voice, Jenna would make conversation. She would talk about the weather; she said she hoped it would clear up, even though that was a lie. She would tell the joke about the two rabbits that her mother used to tell her as a child, and her date would laugh nicely at the punch line even though it wasn’t funny anymore. She would say that in some languages there is no way to say “goodbye”, only “we’ll meet again”.
Did you know that? she would ask.
No, her date would say, I didn’t.
Jenna might ask her date what their favorite color was, and when her date asked her the same she would think for a while, chewing her finger thoughtfully. Then she would smile and say yellow, just like the rose on this table.
But the conversation would always die out after about twenty-three minutes when her date ran out of words and surrendered to rapture, and there would be a silence so great that Jenna could hear the movements of each fork in the restaurant. Jenna would play with her fingers, her eyelashes casting shadows over the makeup on her face. When she looked up her eyes shone.
Do I bore you? she would ask, achingly.
Then all the forks in the restaurant would pause, and a sparrow would fly by the window where they sat, and her date would fall twofold in love.
November 29, 2008
[I found these seedlings saved under the name "11 29 08", which is the only context I can place. I took mercy on them mostly because I like the first line... Maybe they'll sprout later.]
---
When he picked me up, I dangled by my stem and the pit in my stomach tugged at my viscera. The wheels in his car turned round and round, back and forth, and we sat silently, holding hands as the asphalt curled behind us. I looked out of the window into the depths of the dark blue sky for closure, and when I observed its great emptiness, I felt tears pushing themselves out of the leaks in my eyes, sliding from my nostrils.
a great chemical promise of love, cherubs twirl test tubes, clouds of smoke and glittering hormones, our blood froths and bubbles when it meets the oxygen, pulsing from blue to red, leaving skid marks on the highway of our heart, pumping with emphatic amphetamines, swallowing doses with touching tongues,
---
When he picked me up, I dangled by my stem and the pit in my stomach tugged at my viscera. The wheels in his car turned round and round, back and forth, and we sat silently, holding hands as the asphalt curled behind us. I looked out of the window into the depths of the dark blue sky for closure, and when I observed its great emptiness, I felt tears pushing themselves out of the leaks in my eyes, sliding from my nostrils.
a great chemical promise of love, cherubs twirl test tubes, clouds of smoke and glittering hormones, our blood froths and bubbles when it meets the oxygen, pulsing from blue to red, leaving skid marks on the highway of our heart, pumping with emphatic amphetamines, swallowing doses with touching tongues,
May 15, 2010
A Night to Forget
[This is a relic from the screenwriting class I took last year. I don't think I'm cut out to be a screenwriter, but anyway, James Franco's mom was in my class. True life.]
--
INT. – PROM – NIGHT
Two girls sit at a table as vapid pop singles blare in the background, accompanied only by a messy scattering of abandoned drinks and plates. A bored-looking brunette wearing a blue dress and dark eye makeup, CLAIRE, 17, blows bubbles with her gum, supporting her head with one arm on the table. An Indian girl wearing a long braid, a red dress and only a little matching color on her lips, ANJALI, 16, is crocheting with yarn from her purse.
Claire blows a bubble that swells precariously until it bursts on her face. She lets out a slow, exasperated sigh, and then starts to pick it off with an expression of disgust.
Anjali looks at her and smiles superiorly.
A bit of gum that Claire has pulled from her face is stuck to her fingers; she fiddles with it pathetically.
Claire sighs and sticks the bit of gum under the table. Anjali examines her crocheting and wrinkles her nose, then looks up and starts to mercilessly unravel her work. She pauses.
Anjali frowns at Claire, who picks more gum off of her face until she notices Anjali’s expression.
The girls resume their occupations.
Another sensitive silence.
Claire instantly looks sheepish. Anjali reacts subtly, hurt.
Claire hops out of her chair to greet a boy wearing black, DARREN, 18, who kisses her and wraps his arm around her.
Darren takes her by the hand and leads her swiftly away. Claire looks back apologetically at Anjali, makes the universal phone gesture and mouths “I’ll call you”. Anjali rolls her eyes and curtly unravels the last of her work.
--
INT. – PROM – NIGHT
Two girls sit at a table as vapid pop singles blare in the background, accompanied only by a messy scattering of abandoned drinks and plates. A bored-looking brunette wearing a blue dress and dark eye makeup, CLAIRE, 17, blows bubbles with her gum, supporting her head with one arm on the table. An Indian girl wearing a long braid, a red dress and only a little matching color on her lips, ANJALI, 16, is crocheting with yarn from her purse.
CLAIRE
This is grotesque.
ANJALI
I thought the food was okay.
CLAIRE
(petulant)
I hate lasagna.
ANJALI
(placid)
Mm, then yes, this is grotesque.
Claire blows a bubble that swells precariously until it bursts on her face. She lets out a slow, exasperated sigh, and then starts to pick it off with an expression of disgust.
CLAIRE
I should have brought something to do.
Anjali looks at her and smiles superiorly.
CLAIRE (cont’d)
Oh, shut up.
ANJALI
(returning to her work)
I didn’t say anything.
CLAIRE
Tch.
A bit of gum that Claire has pulled from her face is stuck to her fingers; she fiddles with it pathetically.
CLAIRE
(oddly melancholy)
Why are we here?
ANJALI
To create magical memories, of course.
Claire sighs and sticks the bit of gum under the table. Anjali examines her crocheting and wrinkles her nose, then looks up and starts to mercilessly unravel her work. She pauses.
ANJALI
Ooh.
CLAIRE
(looking up)
What?
ANJALI
Toby is staring over here.
CLAIRE
(annoyed)
Oh my god.
ANJALI
Oh, lighten up. It’s cute how much he likes you.
CLAIRE
Yeah, well, tough shit. I’m with Darren.
Anjali frowns at Claire, who picks more gum off of her face until she notices Anjali’s expression.
CLAIRE
What?
ANJALI
You’re so mean.
CLAIRE
I’m not mean, I’m in love.
ANJALI
Tch.
The girls resume their occupations.
ANJALI
Well, I don’t know why you didn’t take him up in the first place.
CLAIRE
Huh? Darren never asked me out.
ANJALI
No, Toby.
CLAIRE
Are you kidding?
ANJALI
No, what’s so bad about Toby?
CLAIRE
He’s so awkward.
ANJALI
He’s really nice.
CLAIRE
But he’s so twitchy.
ANJALI
His humor column in the paper is really good.
CLAIRE
(derisive)
Well, if he’s so great, you go out with him, then.
ANJALI
Hmph.
Another sensitive silence.
ANJALI
So where is the Great Darren, anyway?
CLAIRE
Peeing.
ANJALI
(sarcastic)
Ooh.
CLAIRE
Oh, so what’s the problem with Darren?
ANJALI
I... just...
CLAIRE
Nothing, that's what. You’re just jealous because you want all of my attention.
Claire instantly looks sheepish. Anjali reacts subtly, hurt.
CLAIRE
Sorry.
ANJALI
You must really be in love.
CLAIRE
Angie, I’m sorry.
ANJALI
Speak of the devil.
CLAIRE
Huh?
ANJALI
(gesturing)
Your beau has returned.
CLAIRE
Ooh.
Claire hops out of her chair to greet a boy wearing black, DARREN, 18, who kisses her and wraps his arm around her.
DARREN
Hey, gorgeous.
CLAIRE
Hey.
DARREN
I’ve had enough of this shit. Wanna get out of here?
CLAIRE
Yeah, okay.
Darren takes her by the hand and leads her swiftly away. Claire looks back apologetically at Anjali, makes the universal phone gesture and mouths “I’ll call you”. Anjali rolls her eyes and curtly unravels the last of her work.
Six Sentences
[Six Sentences is a pretty cool deal, and the structure suits my creative attention span to a tee. However, my submissions from a couple years ago have mysteriously eluded 6S fame, so here they are now. They were nearly crippled by affectation when I rescued them from the crypt, but after some invasive editing there might be hope for them yet.]
--
"Psychosexual"
The summer of oral fixation began the moment we graduated. My girls and I didn't seize the day, we chewed it to a pulp and spat it out behind us. Lollipops, popsicles, bubble gum, cigarettes, blowjobs, lip gloss, cherry stems - we fell in love every time we opened our mouths. We sang and giggled and gossiped and kissed, holding hands as we had barbells put through our tongues. Just as we were starting to believe that the summer would last forever, the weather had turned cold, our tongues were infected, and we found ourselves alone in college. We were scared, and our lips were sealed.
--
"Dollface"
There is a sound like knees being skinned on concrete as she runs her mascara brush through her mousy eyelashes. Her lip gloss is the color of strawberry ice cream after it falls in the dirt. Her eyeshadow is the color of bruises from a bully.
She deepens the artificial blush on her cheeks. There is a sound like tricycle tires deflating as she breathes. She's ready to fall in love.
--
"Heads Without Shoulders"
He was an ugly man with Costello glasses, and my mascara always bled under my eyes whenever we were together. The night after we first met, I went to the drugstore and bought hair dye in an unnatural shade of brown. As I applied the toxic goop to my brittle hair in the bathroom, the perfect model beamed from the box, somehow too elated to be condescending.
The first time I went over to his place, the whole apartment stank of frozen potstickers. He poured me a thimbleful of rum, and his cat knocked over a crusty bottle of rice vinegar. We toasted our miserable love, and with a single tear of resignation, I abandoned hope.
--
"Stars"
The blunted eye would have missed it all, and fairly so, for their pinky fingers barely touched. But the outer-space sparkle in his eyes and her mouth was obvious to anyone who's ever seen a tree struck by lightning. He was stunned, still smoldering, his shell starkly singed. Sparks flashed beneath his skin and he burned blissfully where leaves had caught afire around his face. As the thunderous storm clouds cleared, a blinding light shone from where she stood; similarly goddesses shine with celestial power, love and mercy for mortals. When she laughed widely, little silver stars glittered between her teeth.
--
"Psychosexual"
The summer of oral fixation began the moment we graduated. My girls and I didn't seize the day, we chewed it to a pulp and spat it out behind us. Lollipops, popsicles, bubble gum, cigarettes, blowjobs, lip gloss, cherry stems - we fell in love every time we opened our mouths. We sang and giggled and gossiped and kissed, holding hands as we had barbells put through our tongues. Just as we were starting to believe that the summer would last forever, the weather had turned cold, our tongues were infected, and we found ourselves alone in college. We were scared, and our lips were sealed.
--
"Dollface"
There is a sound like knees being skinned on concrete as she runs her mascara brush through her mousy eyelashes. Her lip gloss is the color of strawberry ice cream after it falls in the dirt. Her eyeshadow is the color of bruises from a bully.
She deepens the artificial blush on her cheeks. There is a sound like tricycle tires deflating as she breathes. She's ready to fall in love.
--
"Heads Without Shoulders"
He was an ugly man with Costello glasses, and my mascara always bled under my eyes whenever we were together. The night after we first met, I went to the drugstore and bought hair dye in an unnatural shade of brown. As I applied the toxic goop to my brittle hair in the bathroom, the perfect model beamed from the box, somehow too elated to be condescending.
The first time I went over to his place, the whole apartment stank of frozen potstickers. He poured me a thimbleful of rum, and his cat knocked over a crusty bottle of rice vinegar. We toasted our miserable love, and with a single tear of resignation, I abandoned hope.
--
"Stars"
The blunted eye would have missed it all, and fairly so, for their pinky fingers barely touched. But the outer-space sparkle in his eyes and her mouth was obvious to anyone who's ever seen a tree struck by lightning. He was stunned, still smoldering, his shell starkly singed. Sparks flashed beneath his skin and he burned blissfully where leaves had caught afire around his face. As the thunderous storm clouds cleared, a blinding light shone from where she stood; similarly goddesses shine with celestial power, love and mercy for mortals. When she laughed widely, little silver stars glittered between her teeth.
May 14, 2010
Mortal Ambrosia
[This is a bit of hectic poetry that came out of me after I watched Troy (it was aight). I haven't yet made much sense of it.]
---
As mighty as we may feel, we suffer in this brave new world, incarcerated within a forbidding network of tangled wires.
The heroes of classical times used to hurl their javelins deep into space, where the great Forms of perfection hovered, and would pull the divine pearls down to earth. They were rich with truth and knowledge, a precious bounty normally hoarded by the gods. Praise was deserved only by the flesh that wielded the instruments, and the passion which swelled in its muscles. Humankind was naked and free.
Now when we dare reach to the skies for answers, we merely skim the bellies of stormclouds, depressed by the layers of our atmosphere and their merciless gravity. We aim our arrows timidly through the electrical netting and fire, following with our eyes the arrow on its arc of feeble hope, into the clouds, and downward in inevitable defeat.
When we go to collect our arrows and return to our humble prison, we notice that the tips of the arrows shine darkly - we touch our fingers to it and notice that they are wet. We hold our fingers to the sunlight and see that they are red, we touch our fingers to our tongues and taste that they are sweet. The sweetness is intoxicating, and we become wild and foolish. Starved, we cut our tongues on the arrows as we lick hungrily at them. We wet our fingers and drag them across our faces, we paint our lips and kiss deliriously. We grope and caress and attack each other with stained hands, drowning ourselves in the nectar that our arrows have brought us from above. We know only that it is blood, but we feel that it is love.
---
As mighty as we may feel, we suffer in this brave new world, incarcerated within a forbidding network of tangled wires.
The heroes of classical times used to hurl their javelins deep into space, where the great Forms of perfection hovered, and would pull the divine pearls down to earth. They were rich with truth and knowledge, a precious bounty normally hoarded by the gods. Praise was deserved only by the flesh that wielded the instruments, and the passion which swelled in its muscles. Humankind was naked and free.
Now when we dare reach to the skies for answers, we merely skim the bellies of stormclouds, depressed by the layers of our atmosphere and their merciless gravity. We aim our arrows timidly through the electrical netting and fire, following with our eyes the arrow on its arc of feeble hope, into the clouds, and downward in inevitable defeat.
When we go to collect our arrows and return to our humble prison, we notice that the tips of the arrows shine darkly - we touch our fingers to it and notice that they are wet. We hold our fingers to the sunlight and see that they are red, we touch our fingers to our tongues and taste that they are sweet. The sweetness is intoxicating, and we become wild and foolish. Starved, we cut our tongues on the arrows as we lick hungrily at them. We wet our fingers and drag them across our faces, we paint our lips and kiss deliriously. We grope and caress and attack each other with stained hands, drowning ourselves in the nectar that our arrows have brought us from above. We know only that it is blood, but we feel that it is love.
May 13, 2010
The Vice and Versa of Love After Life
[Last summer, the aftermath of gruesome local events bought suicide a one-way ticket to my subconscious. It was a pushy guest, and far outstayed its welcome.]
---
I’m going to explain now that I have the time to do it, so listen. You’re not the only one I love; I know it’s not as simple as that. I love everyone who wears glasses or baubles in their ears, and beyond all of them I love everyone who wears black, and everyone who sings themselves to sleep and tattoos themselves when no one’s looking and talks to animals and does any of the other things I imagined you did. I love them all, which means that I love you and furthermore I love you, and over and over again I love you.
See, I know exactly how it works. I know how the layers of my love fit into each other, and I know how each gear spins within the machine of my love. At first it was too complicated for me to understand and apparently everyone else figured it out before I did, but I know now. That’s not what matters, though. What matters is that you knew too, and for that reason alone, you should have done something.
You didn’t even have to look at me, but you should have looked at the sky more than you did. You should have swum in the ocean until the saltwater cleaned your head, you should have stood in the rain holding a key until lightning struck you and changed your mind. You should have gotten really, really high. You should have had surgery, you should have had an exorcism – did you think about this? Did you sit down and think about what you could do instead? Did you spend even a tenth of the time thinking about this as I have?
You should have cut your hair so it didn’t weigh your head down, but you let it break your neck; you picked up a razor and you could have shaved your head and walked out of the bathroom, but you cut your wrists. Did you think as you did this? Did you look in the mirror and think? You know these are rhetorical questions, because of course you weren’t thinking. I spent a long time in love and not thinking, so I know what not thinking feels like.
In fact, I didn’t think until you made me think, and then I thought about everything. I thought about you, I thought about me (but more about you), I thought about each of my skin cells that had made contact with you, I thought about every word that you spoke and then the endless permutations of words I could say in reply. I went sleepless for days thinking about the single time that I saw you naked. I studied these things; I made theories and calculations and equations of these things.
Eventually I even ventured to think about this intimidating love-making machine that had somehow showed up in my life, and there were many thoughts to think about that; I thought about whether it was me or you that built it, I thought about what it made me do and what it was made of, and I studied all of its components until I understood how it worked. I intellectualized love, and I wish I hadn’t. Now that you’ve left I’m thinking more than ever, and I have nothing to show for it. I don’t get closer to you by thinking, because you stopped thinking.
You flipped the switch to your brain and your heart and bought a ticket to some weird remote place - underground, hell, heaven, some magical ether where nothing hurts, whatever – anywhere I’m not. I need to reach you, I need to touch you and speak to you, and I try to do this by thinking or walking or praying, but you’re somewhere where nothing I do can bring me nearer to you. I know this but still I try, I try to outsmart it, I try to think until I transcend thought, meditate until I transcend death, pray until God breaks through the clouds and brings me to you - you know this, you know how I try. Surely you understood what would become of me once you left.
And so I ask you: did you spare a moment to pity me, running in place looking for you? Did you laugh or shed a tear for me? Why did you condemn me to life on a conveyor belt? Did you mean for me to run until my heart breaks? Should I jump and try to grab your hand instead, or did you intend for me to fall off of the edge and look for you below? And what did you think of this monumental machine that governs my heart? Did you know that without you here to help me I would lose control of it and it would start to rule my head as well? Should I have broken it down and rebuilt it differently, or should I surrender to its control? What do I do with all the love that it produces if I can’t send that love to you? Where do I go if I can’t go to you? Should I run away or sink my roots into your grave? Do I live as a cripple or a martyr? As man or machine? As a lover or a fighter?
What am I supposed to do?
---
I’m going to explain now that I have the time to do it, so listen. You’re not the only one I love; I know it’s not as simple as that. I love everyone who wears glasses or baubles in their ears, and beyond all of them I love everyone who wears black, and everyone who sings themselves to sleep and tattoos themselves when no one’s looking and talks to animals and does any of the other things I imagined you did. I love them all, which means that I love you and furthermore I love you, and over and over again I love you.
See, I know exactly how it works. I know how the layers of my love fit into each other, and I know how each gear spins within the machine of my love. At first it was too complicated for me to understand and apparently everyone else figured it out before I did, but I know now. That’s not what matters, though. What matters is that you knew too, and for that reason alone, you should have done something.
You didn’t even have to look at me, but you should have looked at the sky more than you did. You should have swum in the ocean until the saltwater cleaned your head, you should have stood in the rain holding a key until lightning struck you and changed your mind. You should have gotten really, really high. You should have had surgery, you should have had an exorcism – did you think about this? Did you sit down and think about what you could do instead? Did you spend even a tenth of the time thinking about this as I have?
You should have cut your hair so it didn’t weigh your head down, but you let it break your neck; you picked up a razor and you could have shaved your head and walked out of the bathroom, but you cut your wrists. Did you think as you did this? Did you look in the mirror and think? You know these are rhetorical questions, because of course you weren’t thinking. I spent a long time in love and not thinking, so I know what not thinking feels like.
In fact, I didn’t think until you made me think, and then I thought about everything. I thought about you, I thought about me (but more about you), I thought about each of my skin cells that had made contact with you, I thought about every word that you spoke and then the endless permutations of words I could say in reply. I went sleepless for days thinking about the single time that I saw you naked. I studied these things; I made theories and calculations and equations of these things.
Eventually I even ventured to think about this intimidating love-making machine that had somehow showed up in my life, and there were many thoughts to think about that; I thought about whether it was me or you that built it, I thought about what it made me do and what it was made of, and I studied all of its components until I understood how it worked. I intellectualized love, and I wish I hadn’t. Now that you’ve left I’m thinking more than ever, and I have nothing to show for it. I don’t get closer to you by thinking, because you stopped thinking.
You flipped the switch to your brain and your heart and bought a ticket to some weird remote place - underground, hell, heaven, some magical ether where nothing hurts, whatever – anywhere I’m not. I need to reach you, I need to touch you and speak to you, and I try to do this by thinking or walking or praying, but you’re somewhere where nothing I do can bring me nearer to you. I know this but still I try, I try to outsmart it, I try to think until I transcend thought, meditate until I transcend death, pray until God breaks through the clouds and brings me to you - you know this, you know how I try. Surely you understood what would become of me once you left.
And so I ask you: did you spare a moment to pity me, running in place looking for you? Did you laugh or shed a tear for me? Why did you condemn me to life on a conveyor belt? Did you mean for me to run until my heart breaks? Should I jump and try to grab your hand instead, or did you intend for me to fall off of the edge and look for you below? And what did you think of this monumental machine that governs my heart? Did you know that without you here to help me I would lose control of it and it would start to rule my head as well? Should I have broken it down and rebuilt it differently, or should I surrender to its control? What do I do with all the love that it produces if I can’t send that love to you? Where do I go if I can’t go to you? Should I run away or sink my roots into your grave? Do I live as a cripple or a martyr? As man or machine? As a lover or a fighter?
What am I supposed to do?
The Story Survives
[I tossed and turned in bed last night, my nerves wracked by the feeling of creative impotence... I remembered the little notebook languishing in neglect on my bedside table, grabbed it and desperately wrote whatever I could. Then I felt better.]
---
I know a story to tell. The story starts with the spit that drips off my lips when I dream, and it moans from my stomach when I lay awake hungry at night. When my thumb cramps and my pencil slips, the story survives. When I reach for the highest branch on the tree and a leaf falls on my face, the story floats on the wind. It sleeps in my head and fills my ears with the sound of its breathing, sometimes snoring so loud that it wakes up with a start.
If I can turn the tables with enough force, I shall possess the story, dizzily. In the meantime, syllables swarm my life like flies, married by the laws of divine truth, but estranged in their devious plan to deceive me. They will not love me like a mother tongue, so I am condemned to gibberish.
---
I know a story to tell. The story starts with the spit that drips off my lips when I dream, and it moans from my stomach when I lay awake hungry at night. When my thumb cramps and my pencil slips, the story survives. When I reach for the highest branch on the tree and a leaf falls on my face, the story floats on the wind. It sleeps in my head and fills my ears with the sound of its breathing, sometimes snoring so loud that it wakes up with a start.
If I can turn the tables with enough force, I shall possess the story, dizzily. In the meantime, syllables swarm my life like flies, married by the laws of divine truth, but estranged in their devious plan to deceive me. They will not love me like a mother tongue, so I am condemned to gibberish.
May 12, 2010
Tessfic: An Introduction
Tessfiction™ usually takes the form of florid, structurally crude prose. (Since I don't really have another outlet for my compulsive wordiness, this stuff is especially ostentatious.) It lives here in the precondition of imperfection, and is always subject to my devastatingly neurotic editing. I haven't made a home for it on the Internet because I think its genius demands universal attention; this blog is only a sanctuary for my creative discharge, and serves as some motivation for me to write in the first place. This blurb offers more insight into the glory of my artistic being. BEHOLD.
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About Me
- Tess
- How much mess could Tess confess if Tess obsessed to impress? My guests are blessed with the stress of their guess... but I digress.