sara G, blog!

I Wish I Was An Elephant

2011-10-23T03:14:00.000-04:00

I forgot that sadness has a place in poetry,
despite despair's clear handwriting
on the dingy walls of art.

I forgot that angry was a product of pain,
despite the rage I can wield like a weapon.

I forgot about love being found and not borne,
despite remembering the kind white softness of my mother's hands,
and the earnest spittle of my father's goodnight kiss.

I forgot how art can heal,
could only stare at the ragged hole rejection left.

Attention, Wells Fargo; Even Your Employees Get It

2011-10-17T16:54:00.002-04:00

I recently had some medical problems I had to take off work for, not to mention pay for out of pocket. I'm moving to Nashville at the end of the month, so time and money are very important. As me and my boyfriend were doing our finances for the move, and the weeks after, I decided I'd try to get an economic hardship forbearance on my student loan($315/month, serviced by Wells Fargo) for the month of November. I figured that unemployment would be a decent economic hardship. Turns out I was wrong.

Wells Fargo has changed their forbearance/deferment policies at least 3 times since they've taken over my Wachovia private loans. The policy changes have included losing any sort of deferment for a private loan, and only one forbearance is allowed per year, no matter your employment status. I took a forbearance in April, because my shitty job was only scheduling me 3 times a week(at 8.50/hour-- FUCK YOU MAX BRENNER).

I wasn't intending to get upset at the lady. Dealing with student loan servicers over the past 5 years has taught me that you get much more done when you are nice to a person over the phone. They are working for a living just like me, and more often than not, are not evil hardasses. The lady I spoke today was very kind, though maybe not the most well-informed, as I told her about my recent injury. She checked my account, and regretfully informed me that I had no more forbearance time until next year. My father co-signed on my loans, so Wells Fargo is much less understanding about my personal circumstances. To them, the co-signer is one more way to get paid.

I didn't mean to get upset, to cry, but my voice shook as I thanked her for her time. She apologized, sounding almost on the verge of tears herself. "You could consolidate, but you already have a better interest rate than you'd get right now. They have to do something, because these kids can't pay these loans, not right out of college, not anymore. The money's just not there, the jobs aren't there. It's just not there." She sighed sadly, "I'm sorry, honey." Her unexpected sympathy made me tear up more, so I agreed with her that it was very hard. She apologized for not being able to help me and we hung up.

My parents helped me get these loans, because few 19 year olds look good enough on paper to guarantee a $50,000 student loan. I love my parents, and while we've had some rough patches, I respect what they've done for me. However, if I were the only signer on this loan, and had the choice, I'd default on the fucker as soon as humanly possible. Wells Fargo has been bailed out by the federal government and is BIGGER than it was BEFORE the stock market crash. I'm 25 years old, uninsured, a waitress, and about to relocate and there is NOTHING that Wells Fargo can do for me about a $315 student loan payment? I get emails from them, offering me $25,000 if I switch to paperless statements. Why can I not get any help?

I urge you, if you have a private student loan from the big four (Wells Fargo, Citigroup, JPMorganChase, or Bank of America): Default on the fucker. Take your money out of their banks. Protect yourself from their corrosive, insidious greed.

On the same topic, I've got two credit cards. One, a Capital One card,I got when I turned 18. The other pays for the computer I'm using now. I've been making more money than I used to at work, and have been paying over the minimum balance on both credit cards. Next thing I know, my mailbox is deluged with offers not only from Capital One("We see that you've been doing a great job! Have another credit card!") but from Bank of America, Citibank, Orchard Bank and any number of other shadow companies all under the same big four financiers. They don't stop, because people still take these credit cards. When you're under $50,000 of credit card debt, another $500 at 25% interest doesn't seem to be that big of a deal. They don't stop, because they don't care.

What I'm saying isn't news to anyone, that much is clear from the widespread Occupy protests that have reverberated around the world. However, the tone of these protests seems a little precious to me, a little too self-aware and immersed in the meta-aesthetic of the Internet. This doesn't faze a corporation whose government not only saved it from failing, but bolsters it still, and gives it the same rights as a human being, but without the same responsibility of paying taxes. I'm not sure what the outcome of this movement will be, but I'm certain that until the gap between the poor and the rich is, if not closed, lessened, the discontent and anger that permeates this country will bring everyone- the Big Banks, the little protesters, your parents, your nextdoor neighbor- to their knees.

Stay strong. And, if anything, Occupy Your Own Mind. Form a real opinion and make it heard.

The Getaway #2

2011-10-06T16:26:00.001-04:00

"My hands," Nadeena's voice was raspy with crying and exhaustion. "No, my fingernails, they're still so goddamn dirty."
Eli's heart twisted like a churn through something hard and nearly dried at that. A tear ran silently down his face as he, deliberately now, stared out the windshield into the grey sheets of rain. He threw his head to the side slightly and blinked it away impatiently. She could cry, wail and carry on, but he had to be made of stone. One of them had to, or they were completely and utterly fucked.

Nadeena moaned a little and took a deep, hiccupping breath.
"Okay, we have to stop somewhere and get some goddamned... baby wipes, or something." She shook her head at this, a laugh mixing in to a sob. "And a Dr. Pepper."

Eli laughed despite himself, and the situation, and the rain. "Yeah, I guess we should. I guess we fuckin' should." He laughed again, louder, suddenly filled with warmth and gratitude for the circumstances that brought them together, damned as they were.

"I wiped my nose on your sleeve," Nadeena giggled a little.
"Okay. Phew. Okay, baby. I think we're nearly out of these mountains. Canton should have a place. We need gas, too."
"You go in and pay. I'll pump gas. Can't be paying for baby wipes with blood all over me." She laughed once more, abruptly, ironically, and straightened up off of Eli's arm.
"After that, we gotta drive east. All night. Hell, even maybe to South Carolina. Myrtle Beach, maybe. Beach sound good, baby?"
"Yeah, that sounds pretty good. Baby."

They lapsed into silence as the cartoonish curving of the mountain highway began to straighten out, and the lights illuminating the road began to strobe regularly through the cab of the truck.

"Canton, 2 miles." Eli absently read the sign aloud, but Nadeena didn't stir. She had fallen into a deep nap, face against her own shoulder.

"Nadeena, Nadeena baby, wake up. Do you still want a Dr. Pepper?"

Nadeena awoke instantly with an uncanny alertness. "Yeah. And chips."

Eli cracked a smile at that and made a right into a brightly lit gas station.

"Don't forget the wipes, babe." Nadeena kissed him and nuzzled the roughness of his cheek. He turned his face to kiss her fully on the mouth. He couldn't help himself and brought his hand up into her hair, pulling her up into him. He wanted her now, he felt his heart beat in his hands are he ran his fingers through her curls. She rose up and gripped the back of his head. She pulled away for a brief, painful second.
"Drive over under that tree, baby." And her hand was slipped under the band of his boxers.

They made love like warring tribes that night. It was brief and brutal, and any illusion of secrecy was destroyed by the squeaking of the pick-up truck's axles, and the slow hoot of Nadeena, releasing the clock's spring of tension that had been winding for the last 36 hours. She lay her head back against the fogged window and grinned at him, lighting a cigarette.
"Now we both need baby wipes." She watched him pull up his jeans and thrilled a little in the coolness of the leather seat against her naked thigh.

The gas station was empty, save for the attendant, who had very little reaction when the door's bell jingled at Eli's entrance.

He could smell Nadeena all over himself, but smelling like pussy was better than smelling like blood. Or gore.

As Eli headed towards the drink cooler, he felt the hairs on his neck go up suddenly. There was someone in here looking for him, he knew it.

Hands shaking, he looked blindly at the colorful soda bottles and shut the door without taking anything. The shelf at the end of the aisle had a shelf of bug spray. He grabbed a can and bit his lip. He sprung around he corner of the aisle and immediately knocked over a life-sized cut-out of Dale Earnhart, Jr., holding a Mountain Dew can.

The clerk looked up slowly from the glossy magazine he was sleeping over. Eli opened his mouth to form an explanation, but nothing came out. He shrugged, the bug spray can still in his hand. Shaking his head, he replaced the can where he found it. He got their snacks and some water, pausing briefly before the small condom selection. He grinned and pocketed a box of three.

Baby wipes, sodas and food. He put down a twenty. "Whatever's left, put it on pump-number-three."

uncensored

2011-10-06T14:30:00.001-04:00

It’s not that sweeping, declarative, whole, beautifulsentences that I wrote last summer are gone. Just disappeared. It’s that I have less to write sentencesabout, less sub- and un-conscious desires to ferret out of not just my tangledsynapses, but those of a man who became my mutual muse, secret passion, andultimately, the love of my life. Love,easy love, is not that conducive to good writing. Want, now there’s something to writeabout. Unrequitedness, desire undertables and through notebook pages. Thesethings beg for pen to paper, like lips to lips, like hands running illicitlyand so strangely innocent over hands. Now, I have some worry that my shine may have worn off, that he may nolonger be quite so charmed(in a morbid way) by my bouts of depression, my fitsof rage, my manic mornings of giggling and product. The ins and outs of me and what I mean tohim. The stringy cosmic stuff that boundus together from even earlier than we knew. No, not after this long. Notafter this much. Distance is a terriblesort of numbing useless pain. Something youcan only write about for so long; longing and loneliness for someone who is undoubtedlyyours. Unsympathetic. Whiny.

I want to cut large swaths through the teeming crowds ofpeople who live here. Their fears andloves and losses and triumphs and frustration and release all batter at thethin thin wall of my skullskullskull. Theskull that contains the litany of disappointments and failures, not-quites andnot-yets and all of the things that I just couldn’t get my shit together anddo. The show I didn’t write, the poetryI drunkenly recited, the boys I fragrantly fucked and was never, ever lovedby. The embarrassments, theentanglements, the tragedies and the stubbed toes. The lost nights to whiskey, wine, coke, weed,dick. The times I woke up on trains, themornings I woke up in boy-beds, aching and cramped. The nerves I let hang raw in black-box theatersacross Lower Manhattan, expecting to get as much back as I put into it. The always-present need for money interferingin my everything. The friends who can’tfind the time to read my play. Theunreturned phone-calls and dishonored promises. The cut-rate headshots, the re-definition of myself, the striving for a commercial“look”, the commercials I never wanted to do. The auditions I knew I nailed, and never heard from again. The lack of feedback. The lack of validation. The city I came to to search for both ofthose animals, like unicorns or Yeti. Something mythical and if photographed, disputable.

This city is constantly masturbating, is constantlymutilating, constantly throwing itself against the bordering rivers and theheaving, breathing industry that encapsulates it. There are hundreds of thousands of protestersdowntown right now, and they are being beaten. Shoved. The city anthropomorphizedinto batons and uniformed thugs. I shouldgo down there, but I won’t, probably. Idon’t want get arrested. I don’t want toget hurt. I am not brave in that way,not right now. Not as a nearly 26 yearold woman with a future and a little house and a wonderful man waiting for medown South. I peel the posters,postcards and pictures off the wall. Smileas I sit on my loft bed, remembering living with Holly. Remembering the struggles I’ve gone throughjust to live here, just for the privilege of remaining on this island. In the middle of it. Nothing more. Everything else is struggle, as well. Leaving the house is akin to jumping into a pit of howling, screamingmonkeys and hoping they won’t notice me. The cold has come back, the wind too. I yell and hiss at the wind, cursing it for chilling me right down tothe middle of my heart. I’m ready formore moderate weather, and a more moderate life.

The double-dutch competition that is New York City hasfinally tired me out, but at least I’m escaping without tangled ropes and burntankles.

Autumnus Amor #1

2011-09-19T14:40:00.000-04:00

Like a man
who lost his hat but sees it
Fall looms.

Laugh in the dark.

2011-09-15T11:42:00.000-04:00

I honestly never feel more powerful than when I must, absolutely must, stop the flow of blood from my vagina.
It reminds me that my basic choices in life are to fuck or kill. Fuck or kill. This is applicable in many different situations, more than you might think.
New manager? Total misogynist shithead? Fuck or kill.
Asshole kid on the corner hissing at you? Fuck or kill.
Manuscript staring you in the face? Fuck or kill.
Money's low? Fuck or kill.
Boyfriend's late? Fuck or kill.
Mouse problem? Fuck or kill.
Dishes dirty? Fuck or kill.

It's one or the other, and it's your choice, no matter what. Laugh in the dark. We're the line between living and dying, and never is that more clear than once a month, for a week. The proof is in the panties. Take your power and dig your fingers deep into the loamy depths of femininity. Your feminine side isn't pink, it's a deep, inviting, passionate, undeniable red.

My body is stupid like a dog.

2011-09-07T12:04:00.002-04:00

My body is stupid like a dog.
It is pacing this room that was ours,
baying occasionally, to keep up appearances,
and expecting you back any second, or twelve hours from now-
whatever an hour might be, to the inside of my thigh.

And even though my too-well-knowing brain,
has wrung countless tears out of my eyes,
there is a sort of sad dumb optimism,
in the curve of my shoulder,
in the arch of my foot,
in the bow of my lips,
that you're just around the corner-
whatever a corner might be, to the inside of my thigh.

The numb havoc of separation and the torrential downpour of waiting,
course through my synapses,
and my young dumb body lies, relaxed, maybe happy even,
in a sort of slack-jawed, canine anticipation
of your inevitable return to my bed-
whatever a bed might be, to the inside of my thigh.

The Getaway

2011-06-28T14:13:00.001-04:00

"Straight lines, baby, straight lines."

Sweat beaded at Eli's temples as he clutched Nadeena's small hand in his. He tried to keep eye contact with her and not steer the small pick-up into a dividing wall. Whenever his eyes flicked towards the highway, he squeezed her hand that much tighter.

"Here, straight lines in straight rows, baby." He cooed this at her and rubbed his thumb over her knuckle. Nadeena breathed a little easier each time he did it.

He murmured this incantation a few more times, barely heard over the spattering of the flat Appalachian raindrops against the windshield. He wasn't trying to compete with the rain. Nadeena pressed her head against his shoulder and hiccuped a last watery sob.

"My hands." Nadeena's voice was raspy with crying and exhaustion. "No, my fingernails, are still so goddamn dirty."

Two Public Masturbators, One Night

2011-06-11T13:39:00.000-04:00

So, reading Today A Man Touched Me On The Subway And So I Hit Him has driven me to write about my own experiences with street harassment, in the hopes that I can empower other women to fight back against the cat-calling, the kissy and hissing noises, and the disgusting comments.

My most vehement recent memory of this disgusting behavior actually occurred in early April, before it was very hot. I was at a burlesque show, hanging out and drinking. After the main performances, several performers took the stage to do a little go-go dancing and make some money. The bar began to empty out, and I headed to the bathroom. I turned the corner and saw a man standing half in, half out of the bathroom. I was a few shots of whiskey in, but I knew something was both not right and instantly recognizable about the situation: the man was jerking off in public, hoping to get caught. Perhaps he assumed that, because the girls were dancing and seductive on stage, they were equally as accessible and accommodating off stage. Whatever the reason, I was appalled. What vile behavior. What a disgusting breach of decorum at a show where the idea was to celebrate sexuality and the women who embodied it. I used a separate bathroom, hurriedly, and when I came out, the perv had closed the door. I ran to tell my friend Peter, who's a huge planet of a man. Of course, the perv had hidden himself, and Peter didn't find him. 10 minutes later, a performer went to the bathroom and came back in a panic; the pervert was out again. Once more, he hid himself before Peter found him. By this point, all the performers knew what was going on and we had crowded into a single booth together. The perv came out of the bathroom and, astonishingly, tried to come sit with us. I felt a visceral revulsion as he sat next to me. He tried to chat us all up and he smelled like fear and sweat. No one wanted to talk to him, and we tried to ignore him. Eventually, he got up and moved to another booth... only to start jerking off in plain sight. This, of course, was the last straw, and both Peter and the DJ told the guy to get the fuck out. He left without any trouble, but the night was over. Everyone felt scandalized, and more importantly, unsafe. We said our goodbyes, and I made my way to the subway station. Stunningly, this evening of sexual predation wasn't over.

I dozed off on my long ride uptown. The train was deserted, so I stretched out a line of seats and leaned my head against the wall. A few stops later, I was awoken by a strange feeling. I rubbed my eyes and saw a man, sitting across from me, jerking off to my sleeping body! What the fuck?! I was in shock, grabbed my bag and moved to the end of the car, where a single woman was sitting. I immediately told her what the guy was doing, and she grimaced in disgust. "It's late," she said, "All the perverts are out."

What sort of sick sub-conscious permission is there for things like this to happen and exist? Seriously? Masturbating in public? To a sleeping woman? To a performing woman? This is terrifying. This is disgusting, and terribly, makes me feel like I did something to deserve it, when I most certainly did not. None of the performers at the burlesque show did; burlesque is the opposite of deviance and predation, it's a celebration of women and sex. But they were made to feel as if they could not express themselves and remain safe from sexual predators. I was made to feel like I couldn't ride the subway and be safe from some man pleasuring himself while looking at me! What if I hadn't woken up when I did? What if the pervert had been allowed to finish, just me and him on that subway car? What if I'd been drunker, completely passed out? This behavior is unacceptable and stupefyingly scary. This is what cat-calling, hissing, and kissy noises implies: That a woman is an object made to stimulate and satisfy a man, any man, any time he wants, no matter the woman's comfort level or mental state. This is why street harassment is inappropriate and contributes to an atmosphere of fear, where I question whether I should wear shorts or a skirt for my own comfort and desire to express myself. We have to fight back. Throw the middle finger up, brush your shoulder off and keep walking. Let the assholes know we have brains and hearts and are not there to stimulate their misogynist fantasies. Fuck up the paradigm of misogyny that fuels street harassment.

Wine&Advil

2011-06-11T00:19:00.001-04:00

I feel like I'm one hundred fucking years old.
I can't sustain a single emotion for longer than 15 minutes.
I can't take a piss without bleeding and moaning.
I can't eat a meal without cramping and hating.
I can't drink a glass of wine without tearing up like a fucking 15-year-old reading lovenotes passed a grade before.
"Do not take more than 4 tablets a day." I, and every other woman on the planet with a gasping, wheezing uterus laugh in your face. I'm 8 down, and two glasses of wine to go.
Phases of the moon drag me fast-forward through phases of life 'til I'm hobbled and bent, tear-stained and unloved, making deals with God(or more likely, Satan) for a demise hastened, but more bloody than ever.

Pink Collar #1

2011-06-08T02:27:00.004-04:00

I bent over, my bareness unfolded behind me. I heard his low murmur of appreciation and was glad he couldn't see my face: The relaxation that flooded through me was so profound and consuming, my tongue lolled out of my mouth for a moment. I knew what he was seeing, that perfect pulled-tight pocket of promise I held taut between my thighs, cocooned by my lace panties. I fell a little bit more into the pillow underneath me. His whispers were more frequent. I barely moved, but I dripped. And I slid, and I rocked, and I hissed. I didn't need to be fast, or funny, or accurate, or cool. All I needed to be was now.

A flash of light, and a crinkle of stiff paper. A fiver. I patted it and smiled myopically at the blur of face behind it. I turned around and bent over, my face angled over my shoulder, but not looking at Him. They were all Him. The big Him. It wasn't Dad, or God. It was bigger than either of those. It was Him at His most opposite of Her. The ultimate point to prove. The heat of the spotlight blazed cruel against my skin, but I felt only the freedom. The release of any thought process other than Look at this. And now look at this. You like this, and this, and that of me. This concave to your convex, this ball to your hinge. Look and lust and lasciviate because I make you. The only approval I need is already winding and grinding my everyday organ. Now, you look. You look and you want.

Sleep Without Aid: A Brave New World

2011-05-28T12:36:00.000-04:00

Dream #1:
I take my dad and my brother to where I used to work, at Max Brenner: Chocolate By The Bald Man. They are not happy with me, because I ditched the last shift without giving notice. They don't want me to be there, and chase me and, suddenly a group of super-heroes or secret-agents up and down the stairs and through the air vents, ending abruptly as we jumped, impossibly, from a 4th floor landing to the ground.

Dream #2: Hanging out with my boys back in Tennessee. We're playing music and washing dishes, somehow simultaneously. My best friend, Andrew, is asleep up in a loft bed. We're washing dishes and taking cool pieces of furniture as we see fit. We're really rocking out until someone notices Andrew stirring, and we hurry to the living room. Andrew gets up anyway and screams at some unknown person blasting ghetto rap into his window. My brother and I leave the house, walking through our old neighborhood, where we come upon a house that my mom foreclosed on(this exact house never existed, but she has foreclosed on a house in the past). The house is in the same shape as when she left, as if she just got up and moved on. At this point, my mom's in the room but I'm talking about her as if she's not; "So she just left it this way? With all this furniture and everything? Why didn't she just stay here? She could have figured something out!" Mom's crying. I tell my brother that I want the furniture, and would he, if I paid for gas, help me bring a bunch of it back to NYC. He tears up and shakes his head no very slowly. I tear up as well.

Dream #3: After a night of drinking, I end up at a cabin where snow is coming down interminably. The sister of a guy I used to sleep with(and absolutely adored, incongruent with how he felt about me) is hanging out there, with a few other hipsters that I'm hopelessly not cool enough to talk to. I feel uncomfortable, and I drink. Then, the guy comes down, and speaks to me as if he's never seen me before in his life, and yet, propositions me. "Hey, do you wanna come up to my room with me?" I laugh and I say, "John, it's me, Sara. We used to fuck on the regular about a year and a half ago." The whole time I'm torn between wanting to sleep with him, and wanting to stay faithful to the man I'm with now, who I love. I resign myself, in the dream, to sleeping with him, to cheating with cognizance. But John's drunk, and I stay in that area between sleep and awake, waiting for him to make a move, and he passes out. I, in the dream, am groggy in the morning, like I am usually after sleeping with someone(very little sleeping usually happens, even post-coitally), and I bitchily say I can't believe he fell asleep on me, with me wanting to fuck him so badly.

A Dollar in the Jar is Worth Two in the Bush

2011-05-05T15:12:00.009-04:00

So, I went down South for a few days this past weekend, and while watching a massive amount of cable TV, I noticed something both appalling in scope and discouraging in banality.

There's a reality show on VH1 called "Saddle Ranch", that takes place in a mechanical bull restaurant in Los Angeles. The show follows the inherent drama of the restaurant business. The symbiotic relationship of show business and serving jobs makes that level of inherent drama extraordinarily high and unbelievably nasty. The "characters" include all the shot girls, bartenders, and servers that are employed at the restaurant. And let me say right now, I've been in the restaurant business for over 5 years, as a server, bartender and barista, so the show holds a certain amount of bemusement for me.

The episode I saw has a segment about one of the guy's birthday party. The guy dates a girl who also works at Saddle Ranch. The guy's friends, in an inspired move, ordered him a stripper for his birthday party. Pretty standard, right? Nothing weird there. So, cut to the party. His girlfriend isn't there, but her girls are there. That's strange, but it's reality TV, so, fine, right? Fine.

Now, the stripper is dancing. The boyfriend is sitting and receiving a lapdance from the stripper. The stripper. As in, her job is to strip. She's getting paid to strip and dance up on this guy. The closed-captioning articulates the fervent whispers of the apparently already shit-canned bitch posse: "Throw the beer at her, Cassie, throw the beer at her." Cassie is a friend of the girlfriend, not even the girlfriend herself, and is getting visibly more and more upset with what's happening, despite the fact that this woman has been hired to do this job, and is not in some random slutty chick at a bar, trying to move in on her friend's man. The whispering continues, and finally, Cassie throws a whole plastic cup of beer onto the stripper's back. Check it out:

This is infuriating for a few of reasons:
1. The woman is essentially doing her job. The girl, Cassie, who for all intents and purposes, assaulted her, is a shot girl for Saddle Ranch. A shot girl. I know shot girls, I've taken drinks off of shot girls. I know what they do, and I know how they make their tips. Anyone who's ever been a bartender or a server knows that you get tipped more, more often, the more effort you put into your appearance and how heavily you (appropriately)flirt with your customers. Nothing the stripper was doing was outside of her job description or in any way inappropriate.
2. Cassie, the beer-thrower, feels completely justified and proud of what she did. As if someone's honor was being threatened or as if she performed a service for her friend. She doesn't see how closely her job and the stripper's are related, nor will she ever understand how her attack on the stripper was fueled by jealousy, not loyalty.
3. I'm sure that the level of security varies from agency to agency, but generally, when you go to work, you expect a certain level of safety. Such as, you aren't going to get attacked by jealous, angry women when you show up or have your costume(that you bought out of pocket) ruined by a trashy bitch's "retaliation" for her bruised sensibility.

We are all just trying to make our rent and pay our bills. Judging a woman for taking control of her sexuality in a way that is lucrative and sustainable is to be in denial of the ways one uses sex as a tool on a regular basis in most food-service jobs across the world.

In short, I hope there's a re-match, at the Saddle Ranch, so that stripper gets to put a hurtin' on that judgmental wannabe biatch while she's trying to do her job.

Easter

2011-04-24T17:20:00.001-04:00

Easter is tiny, multi-colored ovum and bruised feelings, the little one's first exposure to life's dumb cruelties: "Why can't I find an egg? Why did she find more eggs than I did? Who the fuck hid these eggs?!"

At least, as a child, you still get candy after that sort of crushing disappointment. Small pastel promises of sugar, smushed open-handed into your puffy little face, smearing a sticky sweet rainbow into your drying tears. Somewhere, skittering along the back of your still developing sense of self, you're still wondering, "Why couldn't I find the eggs? She found so many more, what's wrong with me??"

Skinned knuckles and knees from following the leader of the pack, picking through her abandoned possibilities.

The Knife Doesn't Know Its Sharp

2011-03-21T22:03:00.004-04:00

The knife doesn't know its sharp. It doesn't. Trust me. From the most malevolent curve of dagger to the serrated smile of saw, the knife, for all its expressive appeal, does not know its sharp.

The knife is small, but keen, and probably expensive. I clatter it to the countertop after slicing my apple, and it spins on the stainless steel fulcrum of its bolster. Losing its centrifugal force abruptly, jutting straight out from the counter, seeming insolent in its outright danger to anything that may saunter by. Brushed metal, honed to somewhat of an edge, and quite a bit of a point, with the wrong sharpener and lots of enthusiasm. Sharp. Aching into the air with all the priapic promise of a lover's cock. I grab it by its base and set it right again; the vibration sung by the metal remains in the air, half a second still.

I think, "How dangerous, how irresponsible!", chastising the knife. But, the knife doesn't know.

What happens if the knife knows?

The Killer

2011-02-18T20:49:00.013-05:00

Evan Reilly flipped the gilt pages of the King James with the thumb of his right hand. Something about cheap motels you could see from the highway prompted the owners of such motels, for the most part, to allocate a great deal of their budgets for a quality Bible in each room. Perhaps it was to offset the guaranteed damnation of the standard $25 hourly rate. Evan did not know, nor, at this particular moment, care.

He dropped the hefty tome back into its bedside abode and shut the drawer. Looked out the front window to the windshield of his '93 Pontiac hatchback. His crucifix air freshener hung down, perfectly still and functional, proclaiming his love for Jesus to the world. He thought of his trunk and what it hid there; two very important things. The first was a black trash bag covering two cardboard boxes of Bibles, each identical to the one he'd just let fall from his hand.

The musty smell of the things(and not his religious zeal) was what clinched his decision to disseminate them among roadside hotels throughout America. He'd long been intoxicated by the smell of libraries and bookstores.

It was as if untapped knowledge had a smell, or the words, laying unread and uncherished yet, burned fragrant with fevers of desire. Evan wasn't sure, but he thought that if words lusted for anything, it was to be comprehended, in their entirety. He hated to cuckold them, leaving them unsated between covers. He'd lost count of how many times he'd come to at the tap of a friendly librarian, or a not so friendly security guard, having curled up in a faraway corner with a book.

The second very important thing was a woman. It was a book that brought them together.

It was early evening in Columbus, Ohio, and Evan had stopped at the first place he'd seen in an hour on interstate 71, hopeful for a bathroom and possibly a beer: Der WienerenSingerHaus. Ever since Kentucky, he'd seen nothing but der Wienerschnitzel and Bier Hauses out the window, and his stomach growled at the thought of a sausage the size of his arm and a sudsy stein of beer before he bedded down for the night in yet another sleazy motel. Der WienerenSingerHaus specialized in both sausages and beer, as well as nightly karaoke, and the interior décor was proof of their dedication to both; braided blonde frauleins carried trays of steaming kraut and schnitzel to eager tables, and the sound system boomed the Top 40 above the heads of frenzied wienerhounds.

He'd eaten his wienerschnitzel and was nursing his beer through another chapter of The Universe in a Nutshell when a small, blonde woman began noisily setting up a speaker and a microphone at the far end of the room, underneath the karaoke screens. Evan was wearied by her very appearance; her hair sprung from her head at odd angles and ripped fishnets in a multitude of colors covered all four limbs. She muttered to herself as she routed the cable from the speaker to a pedal and then through the microphone.

The wiry squeal of a hot mic quieted the dining room for a brief second, as the blonde cupped the mic to her face like a lover. She affected a silky alto purr into the microphone.

"Excuse me, everyone, put your wieners down please." She paused and waited. The clank and murmur of restaurant bustle resumed without much change. Evan resumed reading, shaking his head at another roadside oddity.

"Excuse me, Achtung!" The tiny woman had marched up to Evan and pulled his book out of his hands. "No reading during my sets, sorry, house rules." She regarded the cover of the book and barked out a laugh.

"Stephen Hawking, huh? Pretty heavy stuff. They made me try to read this shit in college, but I just paid my roommate off." She looked at him, gauging his reaction. Evan was stunned and awkward in the face of such brazenness.

"I— please give me my book back."

She looked from him to the book and back again. "Why should I?"

"Uh, because it's mine."

"Oh yeah? Well, this restaurant is mine, at least for the next 15 minutes, and you have to listen to me."

"Fine, okay, but please give me back my book."

"What's your name?"

"Uh, Evan."

"Well, 'uh-Evan', my name's Kelly, but you can call me Killy." Once again, she waited for his reaction. "You know, like 'Kelly' but kind of like 'Billy' and also like 'Killer', cuz I fuckin' kill on stage. And off. Y'know. I mean, not literally, or whatever, but I do." Every time she said the word 'kill', the upper left part of Evan's lip twitched.

She turned and tossed the book without looking. It hit Evan's chest and he caught it in a fluster. Kelly(bastardizing the name to 'Killy' made his sphincter clench)lurched spastically back to her mic stand and wrapped her leg around like a stripper.

"Attention, wiener-eaters of all shapes and sizes. Your entertainment has arrived. You, sir, put the wiener down. Yes, sir, I love wieners too. In fact, this first song is about how much I like wieners, so listen up."

As her set wore on, Evan began to piece together what exactly was going on; performance art. She was a performance artist. He'd only read about them in books, and never thought he'd see one out here, in the boondocks of Ohio, but here she was. He could feel her attention gripping him like a dog grips a particularly savory piece of gristle.

She introduced the second song by tying her microphone cord around her neck like a noose, held the loose end up with her right hand and stuck her tongue out, dead.

"This song," she sighed, "is about love."

She "vomited" a handful of glitter at him and kicked over the other chair at his table during a particularly passionate aria of absurdity. At one point, she encased herself, microphone and all, in a cocoon of some stretchy pink fabric, moaning and hooting. Finally, her set ended and as she busied herself with untangling the cables from her feather boa, Evan settled his bill and stealthily left Der WienerenSingenhaus, just as a second, unsolicited, beer was being placed on his table by a smiling, Nordic waitress.

He was adjusting his rearview mirror when a frantic pounding on the passenger side window startled him. Kelly. Cigarette held with her teeth, gestured angrily with the mic stand in her left hand, and a clutch of evilly colored cables in her right.

"Hey, man! Come on, I buy you a drink and you walk out on me?"

Evan attempted, at first, to ignore her, and then pretend he couldn't hear her. However, he forgot that the passenger side door was unlocked; Kelly figured that out rather quickly. She chucked her cables and her purse into the bucket seat and nearly took out Evan's right eye with the mic stand as she attempted to swing it into the back seat.

"Where you going, man? Any chance you're headed towards Toledo?"

"Uh, I'm going the opposite way." This was, in fact, completely untrue.

"That's completely untrue," Kelly snarled a bit as she clicked her seatbelt into place. "But, since I'm already here, let's go."

Evan looked from Kelly to his hands gripping the steering wheel at 10 and 2. His lip curled as she flicked her lighter over and over again, trying to relight her cigarette. This was why he rarely went on dates; the tiny things women did, from the compulsion to fill silence with voice to the overpowering scent of the various things they sprayed and rubbed on themselves to attract mates, aggravated him.

"So," Kelly breathed out cigarette smoke and propped her feet up on the dashboard. "Where we headed?"

Evan started the car and, without thinking, reached behind the passenger seat as he backed the car out of the parking space.

"Hey man, gettin' kinda fresh, aren't you?" She didn't move, despite her protestation, and rolled down the window a crack to ash her cigarette. "What kind of tunes do you listen to, Evan? Since you obviously didn't like my set that much. Classical, something like that? I sing opera, too, want to hear that?" She began to run up and down a high-pitched scale, gesturing dramatically with her hands.

Evan narrowed his eyes as he pulled onto the highway. "Stop that."

Kelly, delighted that she'd gotten his attention, only squealed higher, until she collapsed into a pile of coughing giggles.

"Not your style, okay man, got it. Let's see…" She began rifling through her purse, and Evan began pulling off to the side of the road, near a dense grove of trees.

"How about Queen? You have a tape deck?" Evan put the car in park.

"Sweet, Freddie Mercury is my-"

Evan grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head into the dashboard, silencing her. He sat for a moment, as her body slumped forward, and breathed easy for the first time in an hour. He pulled the trunk lever and got out. As he hefted her tiny body over his shoulder, he noticed she was still breathing. He'd decide what to do about that once he got a good night's sleep and had some time to pray about it. Until then, she would nap, rather uncomfortably, in the trunk of his car.

Women were chatty, expendable creatures, as far as he could tell. Having captured one he felt accomplished, masculine. Like a hunter, though more like the misanthropic panther than a good little caveman. As he drove to the nearest Super Great motel, he hummed to himself; the sudden absence of that little blonde shock of energy restored a feeling of profound calm inside the hatchback. All of this is what brought him to the present moment, gazing out peacefully into the cool summer evening, at his decently quiet hatchback, which had abruptly begun to produce thick black smoke from the trunk.

Evan bolted out of his room and let the door slam behind him. He fumbled with his keys and scratched up the paint job around the keyhole to the trunk. He flung it open and immediately covered his face with his shirt. The plumes of smoke belched out of the backside of the car as a hacking, soot-covered Kelly jumped out and lurched away from the vehicle."You piece of fucking shit, I'm going to fucking kill you, I swear to God!" Evan realized he'd stupidly slung her into the trunk, enormous purse and all. She held a tangle of keys and keychain in her hand like a weapon as she shook it at him, enraged as she double over in a paroxysm of coughing.

"Yeah, I set all your goddamn Bibles on fire, how do ya like that shit, motherfucker?!" Kelly savagely continued to scream through the coughing. She flung her purse to the ground and charged for him, the keys aimed directly at his eyes. Before she could latch onto him, he grabbed her by the wrists and held her at arm's length. Evan was, for the first time all evening, and indeed, his entire life,, legitimately scared of, and aroused by, a woman.

"Kelly—"

"Shut the fuck up, I'm going to fuckin' kill you!"

"Killy!" Evan braced against the fishnet flurry of her attacking limbs. "Killy! Will you marry me?"

Kelly softened in his grip immediately and looked at him in the eyes, a tender look coming over her face. She bit her lip, which quivered a bit. A big, eyeliner-laced tear trembled over the edge of her lashes.

"Oh, Evan…" She leaned in towards him, mouth angled for a kiss. Evan closed his eyes and murmured with a pervasive happiness which quickly turned into a hapless gurgle as Kelly plunged the sharpest key she had into the side of Evan's neck.

Evan turned towards the wound with a surprised whimper. He noticed that his state of physical arousal had increased his heart rate, and therefore was losing blood from his carotid artery at an expedient rate. He twitched, even after he was clinically dead.

Kelly coughed and with a final kick to his corpse, gathered her things and headed inside to find a payphone.

"Told ya they called me 'Killy' for a reason. Psycho."

How to Eat Poor and Gluten-Free in NYC

2011-02-04T14:01:00.002-05:00

Find Trader Joe's. There's one on 14th Street in Union Square, and one on 72nd and Broadway.
Don't be vegan or vegetarian. If you're gluten-free AND either one of these things, my method won't work for you. Also, women need iron, so lady veggies, stop encouraging your own anemia!
Like to and be able to use a skillet and a chopping/slicing knife. A stove/oven helps as well.

The Shopping List

Garlic - Get a sleeve of 5 or 6 cloves. You'll use this over and over again for a period of months, don't be shy. And don't tell me you don't like garlic, garlic is what makes things taste good.
Onions - Again, get a sack of 5 or 6. Onions keep for months, and the same rules apply as for garlic; God gave us onions to make meat delicious.
Rock salt and black pepper - Imperative to making anything you cook something you want to cook again.
Ground beef, 80/20, $2/lb. When you're poor, FAT is your FRIEND. Use for burgers, meatballs, stir-fry, tacos, chilis.
Bacon - Get a pound or two. The most expensive item you'll most likely buy. Bacon is hands-down amazing, and incredibly versatile. You can eat it for breakfast, lunch or dinner, and it's full of protein and fat that'll keep you going throughout the day.
Eggs - I recommend brown eggs, but any are fine. Protein-rich and delicious in a variety of different ways(scrambled, sunny-side-upside-down, fried hard, omelet with veggies!), eggs make a fantastic breakfast(especially paired with the bacon!) that'll stick with you. You can also add eggs to stir-fry, dressings, and burgers to add body and flavor.
Butter - Get a four pack of butter. Stay away from the fucking margarine, please.
Olive oil - Where butter is too... buttery, use olive oil. Extra virgin has a light flavor when used to sautee and is a delicious base for any dressing. My favorite is salt and pepper, chopped garlic, and a couple dashes of hot sauce whisked togetheron a spinach and carrot salad. Get those greens, son.
Veggies - Any sort will do. My favorites are mushrooms, jalepenos and broccoli.
Rice/ rice pasta: A bag of rice pasta at Trader Joe's is substantially less expensive than anywhere else; $2 a bag. I recommend a couple bags, it'll keep for months, just like normal pasta. Cook with salt and olive oil, and play around with the different sauces possible with all the ingredients you've already bought!
Potatoes - This is your main source of gluten-free starch; I prefer hashbrowns to any other, and sweet potato fries(as long as they aren't coated in wheat flour; check the ingredient list), but there's a ton of variations.
Cheese - Cheese gets expensive too, but it's worth it for all the flavor it adds to your dishes. I like sharp cheddar. Cheese in a block is cheaper than already sliced, but pre-sliced is easier to save. Use your discretion as to how often you get cheesy. I try to every single day.
Juices/Coffee - Don't fool yourself; Minute Maid juice ain't juice. Splurge on some pomegranate or even just some real OJ(not from concentrate) to get your vitamins and round out any meal-- Water makes you feel like a prisoner to your poverty!
Chocolate - Just a little, so you don't feel deprived.

All this will probably cost you somewhere around $35 and feed you for at least 5 days. Granted, I'm little, and have perfected the art of Drinking Coffee Until 3pm, but alot of these items are things you have to buy once every couple months, not every single shopping trip, and will keep you able to make simple, delicious food that you want to eat, so you aren't tempted to drop $30 on takeout or a restaurant.

Being poor in NYC is hard as hell. Rent, MetroCards, laundry, student loans, credit card bills, medical bills, everything adds up, and seemingly hits at the worst times. I've learned, through four stupid years here, that you can have sustainable, yummy cooking at home with a little ingenuity and ample use of spices. I think a common idea is that things like olive oil, salt and pepper, garlic and other spices are luxuries, when in fact they are absolutely necessary to sustainability! Poor food doesn't have to be gross or unpalatable, and in fact, it's cheaper in the long run when it's delicious!

Happy cooking, my impoverished artiste friends!

Photosynthesis Can Go Fuck Itself, I Guess(or, Winter In New York)

2011-02-03T02:47:00.004-05:00

The sky is impassive,
the sun the same mean one
that batters the desert,
but the clouds here
are exclusively ours.

Freeze, freeze, more freeze.
It thaws, I hear a bird chirp
and then croak.
The subway burps me out,
pissy, overdressed,
and I,
swaddled,
(or I feel as though I am)
waddle,
navigating deceptive largesses
of the city's stinking sub-zero pule.

But if I didn't,
if I instead lay under a mold of blankets,
hand in my panties,
tears running down my cheeks
like spores in
stop-motion
fast-forward,
hair dirty with self-neglect
slash
cry for help,
I would only decompose further,
and the sky would cease to matter,
at all.

Groundhog Day

2011-02-03T02:37:00.000-05:00

(or so she says, when she pulls it out and then puts it back in again.)

Midwinter Licks

2011-01-19T03:12:00.000-05:00

Here, I am stumped. This winter has forsaken me, and while I am even now climbing, it's only to get out of the hole I fell into. For the last three months of 2010, I had the hands-down worst bartending job in New York City. The owner was abusive, and drug dealers hung out, doing their jobs. I worked my ass off at this job, and made very, very little money. I worked 10 hour shifts and left with $71. And suffered verbal and psychological abuse from my boss, as well as the physical toll it took on me. I had panic attacks anytime my boss called me, and had heart palpitations literally every single morning before I came into work. One night, four days before Christmas, my boss came in, shitcanned, berated me for having a bloody nose(I had paper in my nose, and despite the fact that the place was deserted and I was closing, he hated this), and when I asked him why he was such a hateful shitbag, told me that if I didn't like it, I could leave.

"There's the door," he slurred at me, so fucking wasted on well vodka and sodas that his right eye crossed and he was having trouble keeping his fat head aloft. "Oh, you're not gonna leave? Whatcha doin'? You now gonna leave? Are you gonna cry? Are you gonna be a baby?"

He mocked me for not quitting. Four days before Christmas. A couple days after this, he waited until it was just he and I alone in the bar(easy, considering the place was almost always deserted in the daytime), and told me that if I wanted to stick shit in my nose, I could work somewhere else. I've never witnessed such moronic, sadistic nonsense, much less been subject to actual insults and sneers from the man whose restaurant I basically ran 4 days a week. I will never, ever understand intentionally making people hate you, much less people who work for you.

I started drinking at work because it was easy. It was at hand, and my only possible weapon in the face of merciless enemies. My body felt horrible all the time, and was usually too exhausted from the massive workload followed by a depressingly low payoff. I should have quit sooner, but I managed to wait until I secured a new job. Since then, the last three months have seemed like a bad dream. And I've been assessing the damage of working a job where pretty much no one liked me, mainly because I didn't think that the place was cool, or in any way enviable. Spending the entire solar day with people who just don't care for me and my kind of... well, anything, really took a toll on my self-esteem. Especially when things happened like, for instance, someone Googling me and finding this blog, reading it and mocking it in front of people. It's hard to feel secure in my art when I have people, even dead-end shit-for-brains like people who would even do something like that, take advantage of the vulnerability that art(and this blog) offers.

It's been hard to write. To clear my head. I've just been enjoying the really pathetic pleasure of making a livable wage at a place where there aren't sociopaths to scream at me about nothing and harangue me over petty, insignificant nuances. I feel stupid for leaving my previous job in the first place, since obviously that was the worst choice. I jumped from frying pan to fire with misguided glee. Is this what they mean when they say you have to forgive yourself? I felt so unsafe and unwell, but I subliminated it to make money that never really materialized. It hurt. Alot. To give up literal and figurative safety in exchange for money.

The lack of money brought to a head a situation with my dad that made me realize I'm truly alone in this city. When I have to defend my buying of groceries and credit score from my father instead of being supported and helped by him, it's time to say goodbye. It's time to make some waves for myself.

I want to visit Pompeii. And I want to be a famous writer. There are more important things than money, and if the people who you think will have your back, your family, are no better than creditors, then I suppose it's time to get into business for myself. I will never, ever live the way I have for the past three months, under constant anxiety and strain, for money. Never again.

Grace

2011-01-15T02:05:00.000-05:00

I wonder--
I mean, I just have to,
well,
wonder if--
well, no.
Maybe yes?
Maybe that taste of her,
maybe that will be all the sweet topnotes of right
and the tart finishes of easy.
And maybe that
will be the answer
to the question
(that I raise
by merely being),
with the grace and assurance
of the saved-nearly
and the prayed dearly.

Dose

2011-01-02T00:21:00.003-05:00

This story is the second in a series of shorts that I will write based on a prompt from Facebook friends. Call it practice for 2011, when I take the WriYe challenge: 350,000 word count for the year. That means 1000 words a day. The word for this story is "Dose".

"Come here," Frank snapped. His name was actually Frances, but godknows he wouldn't tell a single one of his co-workers something like that. Not here.

Mischa turned at his voice, her eyebrows raised. Her eyes were shaped like upturned almonds, and her hair was long and straight. She wore it in a low ponytail and it swung opposite her hips when she walked. "Excuse me?" She sniffed slightly, and drew a finger under her right eye.

"You heard me. Come here. To the kitchen." He strode away without giving her a second glance.

She exhaled sharply through her nostrils, scratched her elegant throat once, and followed him. Her figure was accentuated sharply by the rise of her bootheels. A dancer from very young, Mischa was trained in Russia and performed in Paris during the years most teenagers were sucking face and getting driver's licenses. She dressed mostly in slinky tunics, in solid colors expertly picked for her complexion and the time of year. She was utterly stunning, and every man in the place twitched a little when she passed. Frank, however, was the only one who had her full attention. He was also, somewhat coincidentally, the only gay one in the place.

Mischa burst through the swinging doors of the kitchen to find Frank leaning, impatient, against the bone-colored surface of the prep area. He held a prescription pill bottle in one hand and the white top in the other.

"What? What do you want, Frank? Today's hard enough as it is, I don't need any more—"

"Shut up. You're being an ungrateful bitch, considering I brought you in here to give you a present."

"A present? What are you talking about?"

"You need to calm down. I know what you need." He showed her the inside of the bottle: Inside was a small amount of blue powder.

"Oh God, what is that?"

"Think of it as your medicine. Uncle Benzy's medicine."

It all clicked into place for Mischa then. Frank was prescribed valium for his panic attacks. He preferred to snort lines of it, when such an attack struck and thusly, carried them crushed and ready. Frank stuck his index finger into the bottle, still holding the top, and pulled it out covered in the light blue stuff.

"Jesus Christ, Frank, thank you but—"

"Perfect." He stuck the finger into her mouth and pressed down on her tongue. She sputtered and tried to pull away but Frank clucked and cooed at her. "Oh, no, baby, no, don't spit out your medicine."

Mischa looked at him in horror, briefly. Then, she swallowed. She looked him in the eyes with a resigned glare, expecting him to pull his finger out. He merely giggled. She huffed out her nose and licked his finger lasciviously. He giggled more.

"Silly slut, that doesn't turn me on, you're a girl!"

Mischa stopped and leveled him with a cool gaze. She clamped her front teeth around the meat of his finger and ground down. Frank squealed at a pitch rarely approached by anything less than a newborn baby pig.

"You bitch! Let fucking go of my fucking finger you fucking bitch!"

She unclenched and let him go, spitting a little and wiping her mouth.

"What the fuck you fucking bitch, you fucking bitch, how dare you?"

"How dare I? You stuck your finger in my mouth, covered with drugs!"

"You fucking needed it, you've been crying about this jackass for over 48 hours now! Fuck, my fucking finger, you fucking cunt!" At this slip, he darted a glance at her, suddenly less concerned about the minor soreness of his finger.

"Wow, Frank."

"Hey, don't get mad at me for that, you fucking bit me!"

"You know how I feel about that word."

"Oh come the fuck on, you're being a bitch! I was trying to help you out."

"You shoved your finger in my mouth. And then, when I defend myself, you call me a cunt?"

"Look, just fucking forget it, okay? Last time I ever help you."

"And, of all people, the guy that got a manager fired for letting slip a 'faggot' during pre-shift?"

"Seriously? This is ancient history."

"Sean was gay, too. You're a misogynist fuckhead who takes uses his automatic 'outsider' status as a gay man to do whatever the fuck you want, however the fuck you want to."

"Look, bitch, this conversation is over. You and I are done—"

"Frank, I think I can probably do without another hateful asshole masquerading that he likes and appreciates me just so I'll get your ugly ass into clubs."

"Mischa, seriously—"

"By the way, black thugs usually aren't into chinless, obnoxious white boys with bad breath."

"Bitch, I am gonna get your ass fired, you wait and see."

"Oh, fuck right off, Frank. You're a selfish troublemaker, not some champion for your people."

Mischa turned to leave but stopped. She spun on her heel and looked directly at the pill bottle still in Frank's hand. Without preamble, she slapped it from his hand onto the floor. A bluish puff of dust erupted from the bottle and sprinkled back onto the floor. Frank screamed in horror.

"I'm going to fucking kill you! That was my stash for the entire month!" He screamed again, enraged. He advanced on Mischa, and she pulled herself up to her full 5'4" frame.

"Try something, Frank. I'm shorter but you're a silly skinny fuck. I'll toss you to the ground and smash some of those veneers out while I'm at it."

Frank paused. Something wilted a bit behind his indignant sneer. He slumped back minutely, and Mischa relaxed a bit.

"Bitch. I'm filing a complaint against you with corporate, you better believe it."

Mischa smiled. "Have fun."

Frank pushed past her, brushing her shoulder slightly. "Fuckin' bitch."

The swinging doors squeaked and slammed as he made his exit. Mischa took a deep breath. She could still feel the un-taste of the crushed pills on her tongue. It was time for a drink. Somewhere far away from here.

Insanity, Or, The Index Matters

2010-12-29T18:11:00.001-05:00

This story is the second in a series of shorts that I will write based on a prompt from Facebook friends. Call it practice for 2011, when I take the WriYe challenge: 350,000 word count for the year. That means 1000 words a day. The word for this story is "Insanity".

A pine branch hit Leah in the face, a single needle hitting her in the eye. Another one. Thwack! Thwack! Her head automatically recoiled in pain and she grabbed her right eye with a squeal. The radiation of pain from the outside corner ebbed almost immediately, but she kept her hand there to ground herself. It wasn't really working. The world seemed strange, unreachable behind a stronghold of water and glass. She tried to speak, but the words popped in her throat like a bubble to the surface. Her heart raced, vibrating the hollow of her throat. She panted slightly.

Suddenly, she found herself on the ground. Her backside throbbed and her hands were in the dirt. A flutter of pale blue t-shirt and her companion's face floated into her vision.

"Leah? Are you okay? I feel kind of fucked up, too." His name was Sam, Leah thought, rather loudly, to herself.
"Sam."
"Yeah, I'm here."
"Your name is Sam."
"That's right, and your name is Leah. With an H."
"I can't see straight."
"I can't either, really. I think it was a mistake."
"Big mistake. Paper."
"Yeah. The left side of my face is numb."
"Is God mad at us?"
"I don't think so. I don't think the index matters."
"But."
She didn't have an end to the sentence. Just, but. But, look at us, she screamed, inside her head. Once again, her jaws had been forced shut by a nascent neural force she'd never encountered before. This wasn't what she'd expected, when they'd been rolling the stupid thing in the valley behind the lake. Rolling it in, of all things, index pages from Sam's grandmother's Bible they'd found in the guest room. Though both of them were confused and cynical about what religion meant to them, the idea of smoking pot with Bible paper made them both uncomfortable. They reasoned that as long as it was pages that didn't have actual Scripture on them, God wouldn't really mind.

And now, Leah thought with a shudder, they had been driven insane as punishment. Because this, this was what crazy people must feel like. Her hands were not connected to her body any more. She could see them, but she didn't believe them.

Sam helped her to her feet, and she leaned on the smaller boy still once she was upright. He squirmed but didn't leave her side. She laced her arm through his and they started walking back down the path that ran along the lake and back to the house.

"We are totally fucked if Dad's back. Or Grandma."
"Fuck."

Leah's heart began to race with fresh adrenaline. They certainly were fucked. Sam's dad would tell her dad. And then she'd never be able to hang out with Sam again. And Dad wouldn't care that she was crazy, only that she'd smoked pot. Had to find a way to erase this, to make her sane again before they had to talk to anyone. She felt smothered, muffled. There was a curtain of water-glass following her everywhere.

Like radar, her hearing zoomed in on the splash of a paddle in the small, man-made lake next to the house. Her brothers had gotten ahold of a canoe, and were cruising the perimeter of the lake. They were categorically denouncing the smoking of pot, and made fun of Leah and Sam for being "stoners", despite the fact this was the first time, ever. Sam's older brother had given him a small plastic bag of pot. It was bright green and magical-looking. Leah didn't really know what good pot looked like, but this didn't seem bad. She'd always been curious, and Sam was her best friend, so of course he asked her.

Water, Leah thought. Splash some water on my face. And suddenly, she was in the lake. She fell to her knees and plunged her face into the brackish green water. Real water, not like the imaginary water that was plaguing her. It was cool and calmed her face. She relaxed and smiled into the lake.

Sam grabbed her by her ponytail and pulled her head up and out of the water. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Leah breathed in air and blinked her eyes free of water. She was grounded, and the gravity of the situation hit her immediately.

"Fuck. I'm fucking soaked."

She turned to see her brothers drop-jawed, paddles slack in their hands.

"I feel better, so. Let's just go. Go back in." She trudged back onto dry land. Sam still glared at her, wanting more of an explanation than she was capable of giving.

"I don't feel crazy any more. I just don't feel crazy any more."

Discount-Holiday-Sale-Mas

2010-12-29T15:31:00.002-05:00

Part of the gratification of Christmas, I feel, is packaging. Literally, seeing things in their original packages, shiny and sealed with newness. I saw people on the street yesterday, wearing their brand spankin' new hats, scarves, and boots. I was, of course, jealous, but it struck me that the winter holidays play upon our fascination with the visceral feeling of pulling something open. Not unlike the brief and beautifully horrific feeling of picking a scab or your nose. Or having bought a load of delicious groceries, and wanting to go cook everything at once, while stuffing your face with sweet potato chips.

The act of use. Of consumption. Not even of plenty or enough.

I bought a pack of lighters at the store yesterday. I also bought toothpaste, band-aids, rubbing alcohol, toothbrushes, tampons(in bright, eye-catching colors, natch), a pack of 24 candy canes, two thermal shirts and one t-shirt, handsoap, as well as dinner stuff for about 8 meals. This, all of this, to me, is the same as Christmas morning. Such is life, poor and hermit-like in New York City.

I don't feel bad. I feel great. A month like any other month. And poor? Well, poor can be perfect. Poor means creativity and character. Poor means more time on your hands. Poor means parties with friends and true time over potlucks and homemade presents. Poor and perfect, like that beautiful farmboy.

I get it, I do. I'd go back in time, if I could, to tell myself at 17, "As you wish." Poor and perfect.

Cake

2010-12-27T13:36:00.010-05:00

This story is the first in a series of shorts that I will write based on prompts from Facebook friends. Call it practice for 2011, when I take the WriYe challenge: 350,000 word count for the year. That means 1000 words a day. The word for this story is "Cake".

Cake. Cake everywhere. White icing splattered on the wall. Yellow cake like bare insulation stuck to the ceiling. Pink pulled sugar roses crushed into the carpet. The remnants of the Tasty FotoArt print were iced to the wall like a whitewash poster. A pile of liquefied cake in the center of the room held a small, burned candle; a wax reproduction of the numeral 5.

The Tasty FotoArt print hung in three separate pieces, a triptych of destruction. The edible "paper" was actually a wafer whose contents were described cryptically on the website as "FDA approved ingredients". Whatever the material, and despite being blown into three ragged pieces, the picture of a smiling golden retriever was impressively clear.

With a start, the woman slumped against the wall, underneath a slowly descending top tier of the cake, awoke. She shook her head, dazed, and looked around dejectedly at the state of the room. She closed her eyes and put her hand to her forehead, only to find a sizable glop of icing entangled in her hair. Her hand found the stopwatch that hung around neck, and clicked it to stopping without checking the time.

It seemed that, regardless of FDA approval, or the clarity of their patented edible dye system, Tasty FotoArt's edible adhesive reacted negatively to charcoal white buttercream frosting topped with saltpeter sugar roses . Negatively, the woman mused, was a poor synonym for "explosively." The committee would notice that. She sighed and stood up, combing out more of the icing. Briefly incinerated, it was sugary viscous stuff. She unclipped her walkie-talkie from her belt and called for the clean-up crew.

"Bring in the German chocolate this time. I'm gonna take a shower."

She glanced around for her clipboard to find it had skidded a few feet away and was rather prettily dusted with an obliterated sugar rose. She brushed it off without sentiment and pulled the pen from behind her ear. She ran her finger down the list, to the word "Yellow". She checked the box marked simply "FAIL" and slid her pen back behind her ear.

"Look, Ma," she muttered. "That Ivy League education being used, right before your eyes."

She pulled one more handful of icing from her hair, letting it fall to the floor with a soft plop. The door swung open, spilling the clean-up crew into the room quick like ants. She stood primly to the side while the helmeted team filed in and readied their portable pressure washers.

"Thanks, boys. Merry Christmas."

She shut the door behind her, as the roar of chemical sterility followed her down the hall, through the locker room and was finally dulled by the hot spatter of the shower.

Dead Soldier

2010-12-22T11:49:00.003-05:00

Impatient lovers, in great haste,

have many a dead Kimono soldier made.

throb

2010-12-20T00:43:00.000-05:00

the way a smoke ring looks
is the opposite of
how my mouth feels.

Cough

2010-12-18T23:36:00.001-05:00

Alright, so. My roommate, Phil, is autistic. A highly functional case of Asperger's Syndrome. He goes to the bathroom and harrumphs and coughs and hacks for long periods of time. I hear every single sound, and I can't stand it any more. I bought him honey lemon and chamomile cough drops tonight, and strongly suggested he check them out. I feel bad, because you're not really supposed to criticize the sounds people make in the bathroom. That's private. But, Phil's moved to harrumphing in the kitchen. So, I feel I can approach it. I don't want to be mean. He's a harmless guy. But he's incredibly annoying. I share a bathroom with him. The Lucky Soap I buy for 99 cents is, I guess, not his style. We've got two bottles of handsoap on the bathroom sink. One, mine. Cheap and delightful smelling. His, expensive. Also, delightfully smelly. I don't understand. The handsoap at Whole Foods(which is the only place Phil shops) has to be at least $5 a pop. And I've tried to explain to him the idea of switching off getting household items for the apartment. I don't know why it hasn't sunk in. Am I a bitch? Sometimes, I feel like a bitch.

Dumb

2010-12-11T00:18:00.006-05:00

he's so good at playing dumb
and i'm so tired of being the wiseguy.

so dumb to think(and not say)
that some boy(not a man or a teacher or a father or a god)
could handle my heart
better than i can
myself.

dumb.

dumb, too, is
that, gee whiz,
life in someone else's apartment,
making her dinners,
taking her checks,
and accompanying her
to other people's weddings,
will, of course,
keep you alive.

i guess that ain't dumb at all, now is it.

dumb keeps you smart when i'm talking.
dumb for goddamn sure keeps you walking.

Infidel

2010-12-03T12:06:00.000-05:00

She suddenly, earnestly wants water. Tap water, from the bathroom sink. The mineral surety of the unfiltered spigot and cozy feeling of familiarity- the bleary-eyed, midnight shuffle to the sink, mouth dry and needy. Flat and, against all reason, solid in a storm of turbulent emotion. Sand dunes of doubt and insecurity. Breathtakingly swift changes in a topography that was a mystery to begin with.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Certainties

2010-11-15T13:34:00.007-05:00

There are certainties in you,

made known when you're in me,

that disappear when we speak

in apologetic tones

(and doors use voices

not creaks,

and ruminate woodenly

on the widow

of your peak)

about what exactly we're doing here

and the hard insistence and peaceful strength of you

become liquid hopeful and easily steered.

Certain, yes,

that you like my taste

and i like your wiry waist,

and how we ride together,

so firmly
(squirming)

braced,

and how there's never enough time

and maybe if there was

how it wouldn't be the same?

And what sense,

goddammit,

what kind of sense does it make

(our endless fingering

of this dog-eared page)

that if we had the time

we'd lose the place,
slamming the cover of this book we're writing,
curtail blank pages,
daring and frightening.

Noise

2010-11-10T13:20:00.003-05:00

"You want me to say what?"
The warning in the brunette's voice sent vibrations through the small, densely furnished room. The danger gathered around them like a quickly coalescing funnel cloud. She stared the blonde woman in the eye with something akin to bloodlust.

"I want you to say that you aren't in love with him." With poison green eyes, she indicated the man completing the triangle. His mouth open with surprise and he shook his head slightly, splayed his hands in silent objection.

Her spine felt cold, separate from her and artifical. she wanted to lunge and savage this insolent cow with her canine teeth, to rip great handfuls of that thin, color-treated hair from the scalp that covered such an evil skull, housing such a warped sense of self-righteousness.

He felt her fury, heard it roar like a distant and doomed freight train, and knew that the seating arrangement was more than fortunate. He did not touch her, but leaned protectively closer, and shot the blonde an incredulous glare.

Her voice was husky with wound: "You nosy, selfish, brazen cunt." And she was gone, the echo of the door's slam almost outlining the great gust of stale stairway air that fluttered a tuft of hair on top of his head. Dust particles spun into the early afternoon sunlight. The air was open season for silence. He cocked the shotgun of his brain with a few powder-keg syllables.

"That was a very stupid noise to make."

He grabbed his belongings and abruptly left, his quick footsteps fading down the stairs, in pursuit.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

The Archaeological Adventures of Dusky Titanium: Chapter One

2010-11-10T11:34:00.010-05:00

The hard diamond sunlight of the Mexidelphian desert reflected the image of the giant glistening diamondback in Dusky Titanium's blue right eye. It hissed at him, wavering ominously in the heat.

"Need some help?"

A long thin shadow had appeared in the sand alongisde the enormous spitting snake. Dusky jumped and the snake struck. He had a split-second glimpse of Doctor Andrew Manpoet calmly squeezing the trigger of an outstretched revolver and bang- the decapitated snake fell to the sand, the law of inertia moving it forward still.

"Jesus, Andrew!" Dusky kicked at the snake's corpse and ran a hand through his hair. Andrew swept a dark bloody droplet off the cuff of his pressed black pantleg with a slight curl of his lip.

"What? So I cut it a little close. I still made it."

"Snakes. Fucking snakes." Dusky shook his head and snatched up his fedora from the sand.

"Anyway--"

"Anyway?"

"Anyway, there's much to tell you--"

Thwok! The sand at Dusky's feet exploded and he leapt away in a fury. Only one person he knew would have the pure audacity to come at him with an ancient Minervan crossbow, and he knew before he looked up that Isobel Beau-soleil would be close at hand.

"Why, Isobel?"

"Why what, Dusky, darlin’?"

"Why are you always trying to kill me?"

She was inspecting the sightline of her weapon through a squinted eye and took her time before looking up. Dusky leered a bit at the contrast of Isobel's dark hair on her ivory skin.

"Because, most of the time, I don’t actually want to kill you. Most of the time.” She worked out her shoulder, and the joint whined electronically.

"Isobel, ever since you got that replacement arm, you act like you're some sort of robot."

"Cyborg, Dusky. The preferred term of my people is 'cyborg'. And there would have been no reason for me to get a replacement arm if you'd not snagged that grappling hook around my wrist."

"That was a cybernetic arm, too. And my grappling hook saved your life— if you’d stayed in the car, you would have died a fiery death at the bottom of the gorge.”

Isobel made a move towards the still thrumming arrow, but Dusky stepped archly in her way.

“Lies. Make’em’ups.”

“Besides, losing your first, real right arm was your fault."

"Completely worth it. First century pure jade ben-wah balls are hard to find. Not to mention, these were made custom for a Hawaiian Empress."

"I guess you're lucky you're right-handed... So was that razor-toothed Tiki idol trap."

"Shut up. Give me my arrow back."

Dusky yanked the arrow from its hole and handed it back to Isobel, but not before whipped her soundly on the left thigh with it. Like clockwork, her cybernetic right fist connected with his chest, hard enough to let him know she was actively restraining herself. He caught her jaw in one hand and smelled her. She growled and slapped his hand off her face.

"You, stop. We'll discuss this later, in private. Right now, Andrew's got an itinerary for us." She gave a last menacing flick of the arrow before sheathing it in a quiver off her shoulder.

Dusky's eyes were fixed on a droplet of sweat drooling into Isobel's cleavage as he spoke. "Itinerary?"

Andrew patiently cleaned the face of his watch.

"Oh, I'm sorry, were you talking to me? I couldn't tell between all the blatant displays of sexual readiness."

Dusky glanced down and found that, indeed, the display was blatant. "Itinerary. Cut to the chase, Manpoet." He adjusted himself, discreetly.

"Bangkok Spelunking is holding a costly dinner affair this evening," Andrew continued, frowning. "In honor of his... her? The newest addition to her collection of ancient and unusual sexual gadgetry: Messalina's Mandible."

"Messalina's Mandible? You mean the only surviving death-mask cast of the Roman empress Valeria Messalina?"

Isobel nodded, pleased. "Indeed. She was infamous for her promiscuity and sexual prowess, and beloved by the Roman people--"

"Yes, yes, Isobel, I do remember your dissertation in grad school," Dusky was poised to swat a fly buzzing around Isobel's right hip. "I seem to recall the Mexidelphia University Board of Graduate Studies was less than pleased with your rather... thorough re-enactment of her bet with the famous prostitute... Rome had its priorities in order. Famous prostitutes..." Dusky made a half-hearted lunge at her, grazing her rump with the fedora's feather.

Isobel cocked an eyebrow, bemused. "Anyway, this death-mask cast was made by her embalmer, who also happened to be in love with her. The mask is unique in that the mouth of the mask is also a cast of Messalina's mouth. He had it inlaid with emerald and flecks of gold, in honor of the pleasure she bestowed with her jaw and, indeed, her entire mouth. The circumstances surrounding Messalina's death were highly publicized, as she'd fallen out of favor with the Roman people in a matter of weeks after her plan to kill her husband and install a new emperor were revealed."

Dusky chewed his fingernail: Was that droplet of sweat going to dangle from the upper curve of Isobel's cleavage or slide, parabola-like, into the lush curve hidden below?

"Dusky?"

"Yes, Messalina's Mandible, inlaid with precious liquids, murderous fuckhead Roman emperor, I heard you."

"Emeralds, not liquids, thank you."

"History lesson's over, Manpoet. Why do we care?

"Normally, we wouldn't. Bangkok Spelunking is a harmless socialite and eccentric, for the most part. However, this time I fear he— she's taking her special interests a step too far. She's planning to invoke the powerful magic said to lay inside the Good Empress's Mandible."

"And how do we know this?"

"He--" Isobel put a warning hand on Andrew's shoulder.

"She, Andrew, Bangkok Spelunking is a she."

"Okay, but she wasn't always, and it's confusing to those of us who are keeping track."

"You're keeping track of a transsexual socalites?"

"The ones that use ancient Roman sex toys for evil, yes, as a matter of fact, I do. She has sent scouts to not only Rome, but Lower Sumeria, Upper Rondonkama, the ports of Caper Town and Reclaimed Harlem, not to mention the Great Exasperated Barrier of Tibet and the most remote corners of Angkor and Rancor Wats. She's searching for the most powerful shamans, sorcerors and black magicians to help invoke the purported Roman Tonguelock, said to enchant a man completely and permanently."

A somewhat stunned and, in Isobel's case, envious silence fell over the increasingly fragrant trio.

The droplet of sweat had swung, predictably, down the crease of Isobel's right breast, and was currently making a dark wet spot on her thin white tank top. Enough. Dusky tipped his fedora to shade his eyes.

"So, okay. Why do we care again?"

"Bangkok Spelunking has been kind enough to invite Prime Minister of Mexidelphia to the unveiling ceremony."

The Prime Minister's sexual penchants made the Mexidelphia front pages at least once a week. His attendance at Bangkok Spelunking's Roman sex toy exhibition raised more than one eyebrow.

"I've managed to get myself an invitation," Isobel fanned herself with one hand, held her hair up off her neck with the other. "As well as a seating chart from one of Spelunking's more mouthy personal assistants. I'm sitting next to the Prime Minister, and directly beside him is a representative from the Monastic Order of Scott."

There was a collective groan. The Monks of Scott were a taxing group, at best. At worst, they were terrifically righteous misogynists and overtly closeted homosexuals with access to a significant cache of nasty eugenic weapons. They were doubtlessly giving Bangkok Spelunking support of a most unseemly sort.

"So we've got an in. Great. Let's get the hell out of this sun and discuss this over something wet and alcoholic. You can come too, Manpoet."

"Without me, Dusky, you'd be getting neither wet not alcoholic anytime soon. Hold on to my belt."

"Actually, good Doctor, I find my current handhold to be more than satisfactory." Dusky gave Isobel's haunch a squeeze and her response was lost to a confetti of time-warping ether.

Hi, Coooooo.

2010-10-03T22:47:00.003-04:00

your mouth melts on me
like the seismic kiss of live butter,
and I(hot plate that I am),

sizzle,

ecstatic.

early morning and i

2010-09-30T02:36:00.006-04:00

i am all business,
all grog and routine,
when,(surprise!)
my idle but insistent
front door laydream
demands my attention:
just relax,now recline(take these fingers
they once were mine/
frenzy this tongue,
it loves your brine)
let's-
take-
our-
time-
time?
TIME!
i leave without make-up,
and me,
or your taste of,
in the smirk
my face is made of.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

How Things Go

2010-09-19T14:07:00.004-04:00

how about
knowing the ins and outs and
how things come
and how things go.
oh. O. oh.
how they go
ohno
and Ogodno
and Oh OgodnoiknowiO
iknow how they go.
O. slow. O. no. oh.
how things come and how things go
know the ins and outs
of ohno O.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Tide

2010-09-15T11:15:00.003-04:00

From the long, hard bow
of your patrician nose
to the taut riggings
of your shoulders and hands,
your vessel,
with its weights and balances,
its sails and hard, sudden acquiescences
to the tide and pull of other seaworthy bodies,
rides lean and sharp
with no fleet-mates
but my own slender marksman ship,
and together we'll navigate this
like any other twist
(whiskey wish or unfinished kiss)
thrown our way by this tumultuous ocean
we have decided to conquer and tame.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Hiss

2010-09-13T22:52:00.004-04:00

There's a hole in your testosterone tank. The hiss it makes as overfills and releases its deleterious substance is high-pitched, above the range of human hearing. Darts and dances along the bordering plumage of my feathered pheromones, daring me to make a move more definitive than this lamplight so low.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Punctuation

2010-09-10T18:58:00.006-04:00

He swung her up on top of him and lay almost parallel to the starscape above them, while she held herself perpendicular, eyes closed and mouth half-open, feeling the tensions gathering between her legs. He pulled her down to him and ran his hand up the back of her thigh. The smooth skin he found there crackled his lust like lightning. He nuzzled her, bit and nipped the soft mere of her neck as she flowed like a molten metal on top of him, hot and unceasing. She ripped her dress up over her head, exposing her bare breasts to the sky. The sight of her naked shoulders, cream against ebony glitter, made him dizzy. Her nipples were large and pink and her waist was small and tight, her navel like punctuation for the exclamatory sentence of her nakedness. The thin cloth triangle between her legs was a bright red that set off the pink flush that began in her cheeks and ended somewhere below her eager tits.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Standard Procedure

2010-09-02T19:46:00.007-04:00

He snapped the blue latex glove on with practiced ease. There were few exams more brief yet thorough in a typical emergency room but as the attending physician, he was required to perform this one. He'd already, today, intubated three toddlers, re-set a compound fracture to the shinbone of an eerily stoic six year old boy, and blocked the split toenail of a hysterical 20 year old woman. A manual gynecological exam of a bored and cranky 24 year old white girl complaining of abdominal pain was almost- not quite- boring.

As he ripped the single-serving foil packet of surgical lube, he mused, like he always did, that lube should always be a single-serving affair, not kept in sticky bottles that collected lint and countless sorts of bacteria. If it wouldn't get him fired and blacklisted, he'd leave a box of the things in the locker of that Japanese nurse with the bangs. She'd transferred shortly after they'd ended their association, but only three floors up to the ICU. He smeared the whole of the viscous stuff onto his first two fingers and appraised his patient: She was still gowned and pantied, not spread-eagle and bare-assed like he'd instructed her. Her face was screwed up into an expression that could be best described as "apologetic irritability".

"It's alright, ma'am. It'll be very quick. We just have to make sure your pain isn't due to ovarian cysts."
He liked speaking with authority to nervous, helpless females. He thought, secretly, that someone should base a TV show on his particular brand of bedside manner. He felt he was a consummate doctor and lovable kook.

She said nothing in reply, but shimmied her underwear off, and wadded it quickly into her hand. "Take'em down" he thought, and smothered a giggle. Two sixteen-hour shifts in a row could make even sexual assault funny.

She spread her legs and clamped her eyes shut. She clutched her Muppet-themed panties in her palm like a stress ball. He, at times, in the not-so-distant past, was accused of being a brute. Oafish. Ham-fisted. His dreams of being a rockstar surgeon had dimmed to hotshot attending physician.

He slid his fingers, two fat, blue, rubber-clad sausages, into her. She winced, tried to relax and let him pass, but he did not listen or adjust, he wiggled.

"Does that hurt?"
"Does WHAT hurt? That wiggling? You wiggling? No, that doesn't hurt."

She was in that literal no-man's-land known to gyno visitors everywhere. To make it hurt less, she knew she had to relax, and the only way she knew how to relax that particular part of her body was to enjoy it. A little. Because, in general, penetration was a great joy in her life. To have it reduced here to science and pure... access seemed sacrilegious, unholy. Still, she attempted to unwind her tightly clenched center, since his fingers were rough, unexpected and rather rude visitors as long as she tensed defensively.

She responded to his questions as quickly as possible and it was over before she opened her eyes. whe she finally did, he was turned away, removing his glove.

"Just, ah. On second thought, why don't you get dressed first." He avoided her eye contact and nodded brusquely at the chaperone nurse, who closed the door softly in his suddenly flustered wake.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Grip

2010-09-02T19:41:00.002-04:00

Though, sometimes
we are both gripped
in a rictus of bit lips and fingertips,
no kiss betwixt
would taste as crisp
or sweet
as your words writ
just for me.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Seven or Eight Inches

2010-08-28T13:34:00.003-04:00

Her fingers brushed his knee in a flurry of gesticulation and lingered, because she could. He gave a little sigh of want, hoping either that she would notice and mount him immediately or that she would not notice at all. He then spoke of Andreas, and all the fortune he would have when he got there and, indeed, had known up until now. She was not captivated. Her eyes wandered to distant corners of the room, in a lamplight so low it only served to embroider darkness. He wanted her to ask him in that moment. He wanted her to know by the sound of his voice and not by the words he intoned that he was soon to be a few inches farther away, from now on.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Heart Lika Empty Living Room

2010-08-27T02:13:00.006-04:00

This is the feeling of lonesome, not lonely. As in, inspiring a loneliness, and not actually having the quality of being lonely. Like an empty living room, echoing with footfalls and whistling with city drafts. It's always echoed, I just sometimes fill it with enough alcoholic fumes, burly clouds of pot smoke, caffeine steam-cleans and the pink opium stink of desire to insulate the netted nooks and cobwebbed crannies. And only now have I turned to scrawling on the walls to alleviate the anxiety grown like a mold. So I write desperate and cackling, covering the wall 6 feet 4 inches up and stopping. Despite occasional insults to the neighbors upstairs, the prose is potent and battle-ready. Nested in my words, and, occasionally, the hard lines of a body, I convince myself that the room may not rattle pitifully with my solo dance routines and scenes where I play both parts.

Nor is this living and loving room a surprise to me. Schadenfreuede-seekers must look elsewhere. The creases and curves of my own heart are only now becoming more and more familiar to me. I, half-crazed with affectionate starvation and artistic narcissism, inspecting and cataloging the dust samples I find.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Poof

2010-08-27T02:07:00.003-04:00

I'm that oxymoron most capricious:
the grown-up artiste mess,
and despite the fact I'm mad for men,
I got my eye on that pad and pen.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Cockle-Shell

2010-08-25T19:17:00.011-04:00

Okay, asshole.
Yeah, you there, with the corduroy jacket with elbow patches, jeans and that cockle-shell bracelet your worldly yet grounded wife gave you for your birthday.
Yeah, you, what the hell are you trying to prove? Drinkin' coffee while you're walkin' like that, with your mid-range leather teacher's satchel and high level of approachability with your young adult student body.
What's up with that definitive jawline and complete lack of bourgeois pretense that makes you a favorite of mousy debate club captains and shaggy retro stoners alike?
How about that time you wore a Nirvana t-shirt to class and hinted at your experimentation with hallucinogenic mushrooms during the FIRST ever Warped Tour concert? Just who the hell do you think you are?
Some sort of hip, early-thirties Ivy rockstar that has to pretend like he doesn't hear the twenty-odd pairs of ovaries pounding in tandem during one of your relaxed lectures? And we both know that they crest just as you push your casual, unbuttoned shirtsleeves up to your elbow.

Don't tell me you don't fuck your wife with that. I don't believe you for a second. And I've asked you out for coffee before. So many versions of you.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Push

2010-08-22T21:10:00.009-04:00

"Mommy! Look at the fort I made!"

Trisha stubbed her cigarette out onto the concrete patio. A tiny four-year old girl appeared at her right knee. Her plaited pigtails ended in small green bows that Trisha herself tied.

"Yeah, honey. That's good."

Every time she looked into the little girl's light blue eyes, she felt a pang of guilt for her thrashing, unquellable rage on the hospital bed when the doctor said, incredulous:

"These are contractions and you, Trisha, are pregnant. You're going to have to push."

She didn't have rosy, glowing memories of pregnancy. In the nine months of the baby's gestation, Trisha had been intimate with two men and one woman, and tried cocaine for the first time. When the contractions began, she was cursing her choice of supermarket sushi for dinner, and had driven to the hospital swigging from a bottle of Pepto Bismol.

The little girl was bright, energetic and full of curiosity about the world around her. Sometimes, Trisha felt beat by her own genetics, and mused grimly on her union with the high school biology teacher.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Amor In Media Vox

2010-08-22T15:21:00.011-04:00

'Panacea,' she thought, was all she thought, could think. He spoke in phrases and cadences that her brain, by default, understood most easily. If her skull was the cracked white of an eggshell, his voice was the dusky silver of mercury and his syllables rolled ovoid, soothing and glimmering with care. Nothing can put an egg back together, but the mere fact that he wanted to try tasted deep and abiding with truth. She started to believe what he was saying, and she liked his voice far too much. The way it melted into her ear with a richness on par with drinking chocolate and a depth unequaled by fine velvet curtains. The way he could still swagger with confidence when all she had was the sound of him. It was a buoy, sweetly bedecked with promise, far away but not out of reach.

'Panacea,' she thought, though she knew it wasn't true. That there are treatments for ailments that pain the patient more than the disease, and she was well-versed in these. However, this was not the time to be cruel to herself, not with so many reasons hammering nails in her head to take what eased pain and not question it. Just take the love in the middle of the voice and hold it like an icepack to a bruise. Forget frostbite. Forget anything she had to lose.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Offering

2010-08-19T16:03:00.005-04:00

He did it. They splashed into the chilled creek with abrupt yelps at the cold, and laughed at the goosebumps it spilled instantly across their skins. He lifted his palms together and considered the sudden and impermanent cup his hands had become.

Her smile was like a mist from a waterfall and coated everything with a powerful magic. He beamed right back at her and she stepped in close, knelt, laughed some more, and waited, mouth agape. He grinned harder and nodded vigorously, tipped his hands towards her mouth. He did not expect the sensation of her lip against his fingertip to fill him high and bright with warmth from the bottom of his belly to the back of his neck.

Then, she sipped.

The water slithered like a live thing from the creases of his fingers through the pinprick O of black between her lips. He felt her suction like fingernails across the small of his back.

Here he was, a vessel, and everything inside was hers for the taking.

They stayed that way long after the current had swept between him to her, afternoon light falling gauzy on them like gossamer. His mouth open with want, and hers smiled closed, quenched.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Gaddis Says

2010-08-19T02:48:00.008-04:00

Three freckles, in the same constellation.

Three different people, with as different appellations,

as bloodlines in those Appalachians

will allow.

It ain't enough, believin' in spooks and holler,

To mend what I want with what is real.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

A Reminder

2010-08-17T00:37:00.002-04:00

This is just a reminder, for those, including myself, that may have forgotten:

The first thing you lose, after your heart of course, is your sense of humor.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Details

2010-08-17T00:16:00.005-04:00

"And why" he asked, around a mouthful of carrots and balsamic vinegar, "does that make you uncomfortable?"

The question made her desperately thirsty. There was part of her, the thirsty part, that wished she'd never said anything in the first place.

She kept pressing for details, those things she can never ever unhear.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Snapshot

2010-08-15T13:54:00.006-04:00

There is no experience in this world that will wipe the hot, bright memory of you, black and white against a mesa of fake sun-baked clay. Hands in your pockets, sleeves pushed to the elbow, letting me roam where I might, fiddle and loosen, fingertips finding leverage against the hardness of your chest. Your body most conspicuous in its laxness as I toyed with you, adjusted you. You letting me, amused and gracious in your vulnerability. Gallant poise. A conscious not-tension, not a lack of strength, but a most specific relaxation as we orbited each other with the unearned familiarity of lovers. This adrenal readiness, this trembling tightness that, flipped on its other side, would reveal combatants of a different sort.

Dilated eyes and chipped grins reflected the savage secret we popped between ourselves like the arrogant shuttlecock of the badminton-stricken.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Flare

2010-08-14T00:52:00.006-04:00

As if, perhaps, this most thorough and harrowing connection could be photographed,
you sidestepped the flash.

A lens flare in the otherwise clear and confident exposure.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Battery

2010-08-13T14:20:00.005-04:00

This heart's like a battery
so quit your jealous chattering.

Watch a consummate professional
write a fairytale confessional.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Psalm For Cindy

2010-08-13T13:58:00.009-04:00

Once upon
A midsummer's art salon,
I sat,
curled in the crease of your palm
and demanded,
with aplomb,
that we write ourselves
a good ole fashioned
and drink ourselves
a bohemian's psalm.

The kind complete with
vimming and verving and
fairytale qualms,
about love and never ever
and the complexities of wrong.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Heart Moves Out

2010-08-12T13:10:00.005-04:00

Heart, she moved out to the bottom of my stomach-
All her things moved in, Small Intestine is flummoxed.
She's jostling the Gastrics
with her backflips and hat tricks.
Liver sees what's coming,
insists on the rent in advance,
while Heart, that triple threat,
she's trying to fuck, cry and tapdance.
The Kidneys just plain need to sleep
but Heart can't seem to keep
dull
the roar of her own
twitterpation,
her own inarticulation.

Heart feels naked,
in danger of crows-
No, vultures,
lurking in jealous rows.
Fly low, dive fiercely,
picking and scrapping,
inhuman entrapment,
and through the cawing and squawking
of the old-fashioned mauling,
a passerby, gawking,
swore he heard the voices of humans,
unctuous and mocking.

"I'm taking this."
"And this is mine."
"It's not yours any more."
"It's better than mine, so I'm taking it."

And all at once,
they left Heart, drawn and quaking,
in the sun,
quartered and baking.

Do you nurse her back to health or chalk it up to a mercy kill?
Sacrifice Heart in the name of art?
Because you can no longer keep them from mixing?
If it falls apart, anyway,
The fuck was the point of the character arc?

Heart moved out, while my chest kept on,
keeping time with my sadness and isolation's yawn.
Heart moved out to make room
for the cold grey dune
of intractable sand,
dumped in by shovel, by eager hand.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Just A Sip

2010-08-10T00:47:00.002-04:00

Chest for a Cheek

2010-08-08T12:08:00.008-04:00

She was so cold,
so icy from the cracked pipe,
wrenched and leaking from the inside that
the very thought of warming up froze her further.
And he hugged her, and she was not that fiery, engulfing star he sometimes held a little longer than he should. She was a vacuum, frigid and implacable, unperturbed by the usual pull of his planetary body.
She wanted only a chest for a cheek, and of course she wanted his. But it wasn't for lusting or
huffing and puffing,
it was for the tears and the sweat and the desperation that wafted from her, like a wounded and bleeding animal, hoping still to evade her hunters, crashing and hooting in the forest behind her.
He stood solid and stoic, and maybe not for her, and maybe not. He'd already been chased, caught and questioned, and he was calm, escaped, while she struggled. Held mental captive against fermented and stinking soil, spitting dirt and twigs, indignant words and phrases scraping like claws against the skins of her attackers.

For all the chapters the curious have never read, for all the plot lines they did not watch unfold, for all the knowledge that will remain unknown, there is still more that they will never shiver and know.

Sometimes, it's more painful to be innocent.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Wet

2010-08-05T13:15:00.003-04:00

I, wet from the messy explosion that is your love, have no choice but to splay in the sun, drying fragrantly. A limpid and satisfied naiad, too tired to sing praises with her mouth, but the soaring arias of love that creep up from and out of my hippocampus may, at length, collide with your tenor and tambor.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Sculpture

2010-08-03T12:51:00.005-04:00

A memory of my grandfather's callused, aged hands holding a pencil, backwards. He's erasing a stray line drawn against the grain of one of the many two by fours that lay in his workshop.

He bought good pencils, with sturdy erasers that left small, satisfying shreds of themselves in his wake. He kept a coffee cup full of them, sharpened and ready like soldiers fallen in.

I rarely write with pencils any more, preferring to edit by way of curlicued scribbling and a keyboard, but years ago, one of my greatest pleasures was sweeping away the pink and powdery remnants of eraser left after a particularly vigorous deletion. It felt like creation, like sculpture, like I'd culled the perfect word from the feathery rubber excess, shedding extraneous piece like an enthusiastic potter slinging clay.

I remember being in art class and, struggling with my own lack of talent for drawing a still life or a human form, wishing that I could just erase all day. Absence of content in exchange for the illusion of work. These days, it's telling that my instrument of choice is a black pen and a small lined notebook, no need for evidence of my hard work and brainsweat.
© Sara Gaddis 2010

If

2010-08-02T12:24:00.005-04:00

If, and this is a big If. And not big in the sense of, 'The clause that follows is great in size', but big in that the happening it supposes is fantastical, yet true.

If, and I preface this with the fact that I know not your body outside my own nocturnal emissary.

If, and I say this because it has lingered at the dinner table of my brain like a dismissed but still hungry child, hoping to be offered a third helping of dessert.

If, and I say that in jest, because there is nothing ambiguous or questionable about how we think the same things at the same time like two prodigious pieces of a mathematical proof in its logistical prime.

If, and I say this tremulously, with great pith and reason, recognizing the Pyrrhic victory that I'm hypothesizing.

If our two hands, palms together, flame licking at our fingertips, current coursing through our ligaments, had entwined that night, this ship would have capsized in a hurricane of bright greens and creamy, forbidden whites. All hands lost to a watery, whisky-witted grave.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Still Leo

2010-08-02T11:32:00.003-04:00

Lady nods. She writes in an answer in her battered word puzzle book and nods again. Her husband, Leo, is talking again. Rambling is a good word for it. Jabbering is even better. They are on their way back home from a sweltering afternoon watching the Yankees meet and beat the Mets. The only time Leo is every quiet these days is at a baseball game, where the knock, soar, and boom of the crowd renders him speechless. He is struck silent by the players-cum-military strategists working their way through nine innings of sunlight beatdown and the harsh, immediate judgment of the rabid fans. He sips the chocolate milk they smuggled into the stadium in a contented rapture.

Lady has observed, accepted, and adapted to her husband's mental degradation with her typical Midwestern stoicism. When Dad passed away, she didn't cry, but she did re-upholster his recliner and haul the stacks upon stacks of National Geographics out to the curb, Mom being a touch too distraught to take care of such facts of life and death.

Leo nudges her arm and she nods again, tuning back into his diatribe about the restaurant where he is a dishwasher. His stories meander between a schizophrenic's word salad and genuine anecdotes she's heard before. Still, Lady nods. She glances at him once when his periodic prodding of her interrupts her answering the word puzzle. He is still Leo, still pinks and whites, peering through the same set of brown rimmed, Coke bottle glasses he'd bought in 1974 and insisted on repairing year after year. He's still Leo, still smooth sloppy hair, though he's more silver now than ever. He's still Leo, still waiting a little too long to shave, longer now after that scar on his temple made its disastrous debut.

The little things are the same, Lady thinks, adjusting her Mets ballcap and smoothing a stray curl behind her ear, though some major changes have taken place. It's the little things that stay the same; the way he calls her when he leaves work, so she'll get worried if he takes longer than usual, the way he leaves gum wrappers in his pockets that she'll find later, in the wash, and the way he kisses the back of her hand right before he turns off the bedside lamp. These things, she thinks, remain in spite of his untimely and grievous head injury.

"You look nice in that ball cap," Leo's monologue suddenly catches up with the present. "You could wear any kind of cap, I imagine. Hat, I mean, because they aren't all caps. Like, a sun hat or even a beret, I imagine, would look very nice on you. I love you." He ends this tangent as matter-of-fact as any other, because all of the things that were real and true to him that day the construction crane swung 'round the wrong way and clipped his all-too-human skull, became as indelible as dark india ink on fine white linen. Leo loved Lady that day, and will love only her until the day his bruised and confused brain cells call it quits.

Leo, Lady muses, is living proof that head and heart are separate matters. She smiles at him and takes his hand, for she is a laconic woman, given to few demonstrations of affection, and it embarasses her slightly. She kisses the knuckle of his ring finger.

"Thank you, Leo. I love you too."

His torrent of words rushes on and past her, but she knows he heard her because he squeezes her hand extra hard. There is an awareness of the man he used to be, of the brainpower he used to wield like a vested pocketwatch and now lays cracked, unwound, barely functioning. He would be terrified and beaten, had he the capacity for it. Instead, he uses his heart more fiercely than ever, and, Lady thinks as she winces slightly from his grip, that is the most either of them could ever ask for.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Hate's Articulation

2010-07-29T15:42:00.008-04:00

I sit at a bar, in a restaurant across from the one where I work. There's a flashy summer storm going on outside, and I'm on my break. I've ordered eggs benedict and the mimosa special, because I've been smelling and serving that mess all day, and want to feel, for just 45 minutes, like I'm being served. Serviced, if you will. Not that I'm a high-maintenance customer, no. Far from it. I prefer to gaze at the unprepared pedestrians using the Village Voice as a makeshift umbrella, and write the occasional brilliant turn of phrase in my bedraggled notebook. After working in a restaurant for 2 1/2 years, your pleasure threshold lowers considerably, and eating with a knife and fork, off a real plate, with a real napkin, out in the open is a real treat. A real fucking treat.

This restaurant is beautiful, one of my favorites in the neighborhood, in terms of atmosphere and price. There are two happy hours, 4-7 and 11pm-2am. It caters to Columbia students who wished they went to NYU and lived in Greenwich Village, by way of Epcot Center. There are high bar tables and comfy banquette booths, mirrors everywhere with haphazardly painted calligraphy, encouraging one to embrace life, and friends, and food with equal gusto. Trite, familial, and perfect for newly 21 undergrads to come drink away their Sunday hangovers and collegiate homesickness.

It's a favorite for employees of my restaurant, because it's close, and the second happy hour coincides with the end of the nightshift. I've spent many a wad of tip-outs ensconced between wildly gesticulating career waiters and tipsy, booming former Broadway stars.

However, today, I realize why I haven't come by in a while. There is a tall couch with a tall bar table directly behind me, and there is a couple in almost the exact configuration where I seduced my (then and now)ex-boyfriend, one year ago. Hate and red wine curling my tongue around the exact words needed to take him to bed again. Hate and lust calculated my pauses and breaths to the exact amount of tension and pull I needed to have him, quite literally, in the palm of my hand. Hate led me to wrap his fingers around the places I knew he wanted to be. Hate let me absolve him of responsibility. Hate let me fuck him until I cried silently into the pillow, turned away from him. The day after, that same hate let me sit across the diner table from him and not cry. My hate let me cross a literal bridge with him, and not ask him the questions I did not want to hear the answers to.

I don't hate this place, not any more than I can hate myself for hatefucking my ex-boyfriend. But, quite a bit like hatefucking my ex-boyfriend, I don't think I'll be coming back anytime soon.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

One Spoon, Three Flavors

2010-07-29T12:40:00.009-04:00

They used one spoon. He could have used his coffee spoon, but, instead, he used the same spoon as her. Still rimmed with sticky, dark chocolate. And the ease with which he did, not so much as a glance at her as he spooned a bit of fluffy cocoa between his lips, thrilled her a little. Rippled through her like a hand through Venetian blinds.

Not gratuitously, but with a certain restrained and glowing pleasure, she picked up the spoon from where he had set it down, only moments earlier. There was syrupy sweet still lining the gentle concavity, and she felt like a kid caught with dessert on her chin:

"Were you saving that for later?"

She carved off another layered bite of mousse, and licked it in a joyful reverie of taste and titillation. Lingered with it thoughtfully in her mouth, believing that if she kept it there long enough, she might concoct a magical elixir of artistic salivas and high-minded desires, blended by the bombastic earthquakes and the systematic spiritual schisms and fusions occurring within and around her.

She pressed her tongue to the edge of the spoon and looked shrewdly into his big blue eyes and open, earnest face, and once again, felt something ancient and true. She mingled the pleasures of what she was sure she could taste and unwavering oral fixation. Smirked as she slid the spoon luxuriously from her mouth, having thoroughly tasted not one, not two, but three of her favorite things.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

More Porn I Wrote At Work

2010-07-20T19:27:00.012-04:00

So, I wrote porn at work again. Same rules apply as before: If you're related to me, don't read this- I promise you don't want to. If you're my friend and the idea of graphic details about my sex freak you out, skip this blog post. There is explicit language and content, as well as being completely fictional. Fair warning.

Everyone else, read and enjoy.

I didn't tell you that, well, after you left, I picked up where a dream left off.
I found myself in bed,
on my belly,
ass up and
pressing myself into my own hand
in that ancient bump and grind,
that familiar coax and tease,
hold and tense,
arch and gasp,
that deliberate tempo
that lovers grasp at,
reach for,
delicious torture,
delaying the incandescent inevitable
with a certain and stilted
decrescendo.

You were there,
we were there, and guilty,
but trying to stay
on the right side of wrong-
you weren't inside me,
but you were hard and humming,
pulsating from the acrobatics
of my eager tongue(your taste still lingered on my lips.)
And, somehow,
the least wrong thing we could do
was to not be astride one another,
not align our age old puzzle pieces
quite right,
just brush them against each other
and catch fire by the sparking.

I was on my belly, my ass up and offered to you,
your cock between my thighs,
making sweet lush runs between
my creamy skin and
slick thick of dark curls.
My fingers stroked the head of your cock as I thrummed my own buzzing nub.
You muttered roughly,
Oh God, I'm close, so close, slow down, slow down
slowdownslowdown.
We wanted to elongate this moment,
make it last into some sort of carnal eternity,
but your every stroke,
every crush of your throbbing lust against me
brought me that much closer to my apex, even as you pleaded me to slowwww down, Oh God, I'm so close, we can't, I can't--

I could feel you pulsing, and my bucking hips begged for yours, my firm white ass against your lean stomach, you slid a hand up under me and against my clit-- decrescendo, no crescendo, decrescendo, oh don't.
You tried to slow me down, gripping my smooth hip with your other hand. But it was no use, no help at all--
the feeling of my spasms against your hand,
and the fresh cooing
your long hard fingers brought to my lips
with their metronomic press
was even more than we could take.
One more pass of your aching shaft against the warmest, wettest valley I've ever known and
I was moaning,
cresting,
rolling,
slowly at first, but you knew, you knew and you stiffened, oh, God- I felt the hothothot of a coming cock sear the sweetest softest flesh of mine, felt your most delightful of liquids shoot across my belly and nearly sizzle up over my nipples, tingling there and wrenching more quaking, helpless moans from me, almost sobbing and wondering when it will stop or if it will or if I even want it to.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Poseidon and I

2010-07-19T10:44:00.006-04:00

The first wave pushed me over like a roughhousing uncle and I giggled with delight, like a child.
I laughed at the audacity of it- at the audacity of me, my being in the way. I was pushed right over, and when the ocean pushes you, it's different from when a human pushes you. A person gathers up energy and then expends that into PUSHING, but the ocean exists purely as push and pull. A person is all heave and no ho, all to and no fro.

The ocean will do what it wants to, whether you are there or not. The ocean's ins and outs have nothing whatsoever to do with you.

You can punch the ocean. You can hurl curses like rocks into windows. You can confess your deepest, most unmentionable desire. You can throw yourself into it like the unrequited whore. You can tell it nasty, awful secrets about other people. The ocean does not care, and does not push those people. Only you, and even you, like the weekend's hedonistic tumbles, are one of any dozen faces and doors, any dozen bodies and shores.

The ocean also doesn't push you back. God bless you for thinking you'd perturb an ocean. There's no malice or forethought, only constant motion. The calm and rest found in such perpetuity, the tide's inevitability, and the undertow's heedlessness of your eensy weensy toes. The sand will continue to wash ashore and back out to sea. The shells will continue to crack and the waves,
my God,
I named every one of the waves and I saw even more, they kept coming, and I needed more names, I ran out of names for all the waves all the motherfuckers all the fucking cursing and anger and acid I spewed at every one of those named waves, as they disappeared. And, while my anger did not crash and merge and dissipate and transform like those quickly lost currents, there is a comfort in knowing that they were never separate in the first place. That the trouble I howled into those dark, dangerous depths was now the ocean's secret.

I spat poison into Poseidon's impassive face so that I didn't have to say it to anyone else's. Heaped my abuse onto the mighty, unbending back of some now-nameless god and hurt no one. But I breathed easier, anyway. My chest is lighter, anyway. And I hurt no one, anyway. And my own hurt is eased, anyway.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Seduction

2010-07-18T16:52:00.005-04:00

[Eva is typing on her computer, occasionally referring to a notebook to her right. She pauses to rub her forehead and takes a deep breath. Johnnie is a real person, and his voice startles her.]

Johnnie: Drink me.
Eva: Excuse me?
J: Drink me.
E: Are you talking to me?
J: Yeah, you. Who else?
E: I think you must have me mistaken.
J: Not a chance. You seem stressed. Come have a sip.
E: Of you?
J: Yeah. I'm told I have a certain... relaxing quality.
E: ... I'm sorry, I don't understand.
J: Come here.
E: Hey now, buddy, you're getting a bit familiar for my taste.
J: I think I'll suit your 'taste' just fine, milady.
E: I think you should go.
J: Just smell me.
E: What? No!
J: I promise, I smell great. Some even say spectacular.
E: But why would I... Oh. Oh, wow.
J: See?
E: You smell like... river rocks.
J: I think you can do better than that.
E: Like steel. Like weaponry. Like the air before a thunderstorm.
J: Oh, you flatter me. Don't stop. Here, I'll help. I smell like... freedom. Like credibility. Like something real.
E: Like something intentional-- No, like something with a purpose, like something with a single shining intention. You smell like an angel. Like this Archangel. You smell like salvation.
J: Just imagine how I taste.
[She licks him.]
E: Like love. Like home. Like God, on my tongue, down my throat, in my belly. Like answers to questions I've never had the courage to ask.
J: I only want you. You, and you alone. I'm a man of my word, the first one you've ever met. Not like the rest, not like that weakling who says whatever he can to get you eating right from his hand. Not like any man you've ever tasted before.
E: Are you lying?
J: Do you care?
[They kiss.]
E: You taste like perfection. Take me.
© Sara Gaddis 2010

Fret Me

2010-07-18T01:00:00.008-04:00

God bless you
that you were sober
and aware
and selfless, too.
"I miss you too."
Four words so much simpler than the sentiment they express-
Boo-hoo.

Simple, not smart.
Parcel, not part.

The desire never goes away
It's still there
Like a sleeping, rabid stray.
Like a vine of kudzu
tangled in my braid.
Like a wild echo
in a cavernous cathedral
that we refuse to let fade-
letting that holler die
would put us both in a grave.

So, let's live and let live
and let sleeping dogs lie
until we stare the
beast with two backs
in the eye
for an eye
and my god, man
is that still your hands I spy?

My mind might linger
on how you might finger
and fret
might play a whole set
of songs we've imagined
but not written yet.

And how you may sound me
from my top note to my bottom-
as Hamlet might say, before the poison got'im-
but let's
just lay it to rest
instead of just
laying
and lying
and trying for something that'll
only end up from the pan to the frying
and I'll be your friend in life and in art,
but let's not yet put out
this intoxicating spark.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Johnnie In The Corner

2010-07-18T00:50:00.004-04:00

He sits, melting in a paper cup,
playing on my senses like the cruel contraband he, in fact, is.
He's in the corner, that Johnnie.
He asks nothing of me, not tonight, not Johnnie.
He gives himself, tonight and I want him, that Johnnie.
I can smell him.
I love the way Johnnie smells.
He smells like leather and smoke.
Like weakness,
Like liquid hope.
I took a good long sniff of Johnnie and
I took a good long while to do it but
I poured poor Johnnie right down
Right down the drain, I did.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Grenadine

2010-07-15T23:01:00.006-04:00

The taste of grenadine in my Coca-Cola, strong, sweet and drawn through a plastic straw, takes me back a decade and half. Air-conditioned rides in a big blue pick-up truck, the regular rumble of the airport highway and the sky big and clear, framed by rolling hills and mountains. Garrison Keillor's soothingly plodding soliloquy on the radio. My parents in the front, my brother and I in the back. We'd pull into the parking lot of one our family restaurants-- "ours" because we went to it almost exclusively together on Sunday afternoons, the only time we were really all together, as a family.

My parents loved the homemade sweet tea and lemonade, and my brother loved the onion rings- cut thickly and batter so thick and sweet it rivaled funnel cakes- but I loved the place because it was there, and only there, that I could get a Shirley Temple made exactly how I liked it.

When I ordered a cherry Coke, extra cherries, the energetic waiter said, "I bet you'd like a Shirley Temple. That's what classy ladies like you drink." My parents smiled and nodded their approval of this breach in custom, of this exotic beverage.

I was breathless, a little anxious. I questioned my parents, starting to wonder if I'd made a mistake. They, amused I'm sure, told me to be patient and see. It wasn't a big deal if I didn't like it, I could just return it. They promised. Promise promised. I was nervous, but this was an adult-sanctioned upgrade to the already pretty radical cherry Coke with extra cherries, and I honestly couldn't imagine anything better and more satisfying than an ice-cold cherry Coke so whatwhatwhat could this possibly entail?!

Despite my nervous anticipation, I got distracted by the crayons and the ("really stupid, totally for babies")kids' menu laid out before me when I saw my dad straighten up and in his chair- a surefire signal that he'd spotted the waiter.

I felt a rush of air as the waiter set my drink on the table with a flourish. The stemmed tulip glass hissed and fizzed with something pink and carbonated; the ice cubes popped and crackled against the sides, gurgling protest at the garish liquid surrounding them. Seven or eight bright red maraschino cherries lie in wait at the bottom, begging for the puncture and suck of my clear plastic straw. Finally, there was the topper, the garnish, the coup de grace: an elaborate plastic sword, as red as its juicy quarry, skewered three more plump, promising cherries.

I picked up the tiny sword and without hesitation, bit and slid the first cherry off into my mouth with a reverence unseen outside Catholic communicants. I examined the intricate handle, wondered if it'd fit my Barbie's small plastic hand-

"Say thank you, Sara. Sara, say thank you." My dad shook me from my reverie and I mumbled the pleasantry distractedly.

I took the straw into my mouth and took a cautious sip.

RED. RED. It was like being inside RED. RED! The combination of cold and sugar sent a shiver down my spine and the aftertaste was both delightful and medicinal. The rich darkness of my usual Coca-Cola was lacking, but there was something bright and slightly intoxicating about this sputtering beet-red concoction.

I fell in love with the Shirley Temple and- unbeknown to me- the syrupy, pomegranate promise of grenadine.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

Things and Whys

2010-07-14T02:01:00.007-04:00

Why is it
When I try to do that thing-
that... BOY thing-
All the boys en route take wing
and I am just alone
just as if I'd done that girl thing
and begged you to be my own?

Why is it
I am always a little too something
A little too loving, a little too nothing?
A little too distant, then?
A little too combative, yes?

Why is it
That the harder I try
the more disposable I get.
And when I let
a sleeping dog lie,
You wake the bitch up
and sic her on me?

Why is it
That we can't talk it away
talk it off
talk us off
the edge of
such
a curious cliff
of a Was that
and a What if?

© Sara Gaddis 2010

This One Time, I Caused A Riot

2010-07-11T01:37:00.009-04:00

The sun was so bright and hot, you could almost hear a thin scraping sound as it razed across the metal dome of the trundling subway car. As the train crawled past the 125th St. stop, which sits above ground in the middle of Harlem like an earsore, the crowd of bright-orange vested construction workers stopped and waved mockingly at the beleaguered cars of now-ten-more-minutes-late passengers.

It occurred to me that I could raise a subtle middle finger of my small right hand and, without hesitation, at least six or seven surly, sweaty workmen would respond in kind, pissing off a Dominican thug in the un-air-conditioned car behind me and three orthodox Jews, their earlocks bouncing in impotent fury as they return the gesture vehemently, jostling an old Korean woman and knocking over her groceries, while she spits obscenities at the Mexican mariachi player and his giant metal drum...

And by the time the train arrives at the pressure cooker that is the 96th St. station, there is a riot spilling out of the middle car of the train-- a Puerto Rican secretary in a mini skirt and heels is deliberately pulling out the train conductor's bright red braids, while terrified Chinese tourists push an enormous black grandmother into the turnstile. She's wailing for Jesus or someone to help her when there's a gunshot, another, followed by the expected shrieks of terror, and then by a less expected plume of steam from the train car. It lurches and sags to one side as people tear and claw past each other to escape the ominous hissing of boiling steam, cooking those nearby like cruel wontons.

More than 15 iced coffee casualties, 7 crushed cell phones(two iPhones), 3 umbrellas, one baby stroller(no baby) and countless packages, shopping bags, and flip flops were sacrificed to the train tracks, to the stomping feet, to the manymanymany legs of this terrifying monster and to the people's anger that loomed like a hot and perilous squall cloud over the masses underneath the ground and all it took was hearing that unbelievable announcement, for the 9th day in a row:

"Due to construction, this downtown 1 train is running express from 137th Street to 96th Street. Stand clear of the closing doors."

© Sara Gaddis 2010

us, clarified

2010-07-11T01:24:00.003-04:00

How much clarity can there be?
A thing can only get so clear
and stay so clear
under such harsh focus
before you start to see inside the skin of a thing.

clarifying? do you want to clarify something?
like butter? clarifying butter?
because
us, clarified,
simmered slowly to the highest smoking point
bring greasier things to mind.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

the funny thing about a triangle is

2010-07-06T02:41:00.012-04:00

it's not the whisky that makes you brave, dear
(or stupid-- because you think you're smart saying you're stupid makes you smart?)
bravery requires there being something at risk,
going out on a limb,
when we both know your choice ain't
"sink or swim"

but say it is,
what do you do with the battles you've won in the morning?
is victory a little less gracious than she?
say it does,
what do you do when whisky abates
and you're painfully awake
and suddenly, you're not nearly as smart as
you thought you were
and you were way too undone
to talk to her?
and the traps that you set were
unfairly laid
with crumbs of nothing left over
from your big something,
while I'm trembling a little
with moral hunger pangs.

it's not the whisky makes you brave, good sir,
good doctor, good cur,
it's the army of two in your corner-
if I reject you, you've still got her.
smudging the line on purpose
does not suit me-
no, not this late at night,
not this place and time
and of course it's weird,
you know it's weird,
and it's unfair atop that
-don't make it any worse
just STOP THAT-
to ask me such questions
and stab myself in the back.

i've never been writing about you,
not between us-
i've been ever so aware
that there are not
just one
or two
but three of us.

and the funny thing about a triangle is,
acute, obtuse, right angles is
they will always contain 180 degrees--
human bodies top out at 98.6-
looks like there's only room
for not three not two but one-
and he's thinkin' with his dick.

© Sara Gaddis 2010

my love's name is Johnnie Walker

2010-07-04T03:22:00.011-04:00

this thing that is risky
like tightrope walking(with whisky)

taking a quick, breathless hedge
across the knife's edge(don't touch the ~~whisky~~Johnnie)

straddle a fence 'til my thighs quiver,
i hope my perfume makes your skin shiver(maybe just a sip of ~~Johnnie~~whisky)

the thing that is not wrong
will become so fucking wrong(oh stop it, whisky)

pouring fuel down my throat
fans the fire
in the belly
of the beast with two backs
(start a tab, ~~whisky~~Johnnie?)

so i draw my own black label curtain,
scotched, rocked and garbled(oh, Johnnie, you and yer whisky)

he beds me again with his warmth
and his promise-
but in the morning,
he's proven rather dishonest.(oh, whisky, you and yer Johnnie)

(oh, you, Sara-gaddis, we know about you and yer whisky.)

© Sara Gaddis 2010

he wore a fedora

2010-07-02T12:45:00.007-04:00

He in the fedora again.
Green shirt and a crooked grin.
I wore something stretchy and thin-
he liked it.
I tossed the story in the air-
he spiked it.

Jump left, jump right,

"Are you wearing a bra?
Yer tits shake like it."

Heart-stopping bubble-popping,
your hat makes me happy
to leave you crotch-watching.

"He's a professional."
"A professional what?"
"Ka-pow."

© Sara Gaddis 2010

There Are Far More Interesting Things To Do With Sexual Tension Than Ease It

2010-06-30T12:41:00.005-04:00

Isolde: What the hell do you think you're doing?
Eva: Whatever do you mean?
I: You know damn well what I mean!
E: Oh, you mean the whole "not having sex with someone I'm attracted to" thing?
I: Yes! This... feeling--
E: Is amazing? Yeah, I know. It's this new thing I've found: Abstinence in the face of creative validation. I was mistaking boys thinking I was hot and the bedding of said boys for the justification to exist, but I was fooled. I believed that was pure butter, the real thing, and it was just congealed vegetable oil, the finding of skin underneath your nails.
I: But, don't you want to have some fun?
E: Isolde, I know that this isn't really your arena, but there are far more interesting things to do with sexual tension than ease it.
I: So, wait, I don't understand. You aren't having sex with him, but you're happy and fulfilled?
E: Yes.
I: You don't feel unsatisfied and ugly?
E: No, not at all. I feel justified, inspired, incredible, unstoppable.
I: Like some sort of... continuous orgasm?
E: Jesus, Isolde, you do have a one-track mind.
I: ... you're lying. Somehow, you're pulling this off without me.
E: Because that's possible. It's not like you don't feel every little tingle and buzz, every little notion and nudge at my vimming and verving little bee down there.
I: ...what are you doing instead?
E: Collaborating. Creating. Making something beautiful and important, with someone I trust to be as brilliant as I am.
Does that make sense? I feel GOOD ENOUGH, Isolde. I feel like I might have something real and new to bring to this musty mortal coil-- To hear "You're amazing" about something other than a particularly adept blowjob. Sex is fun, sure, but there's something higher and more sustainable to reach. I'm bored with bootycab grab sessions and drunken text messages. There's more, Isolde, and I deserve it.

Hello? Isolde?

© Sara Gaddis 2010

kissing backwards

2010-06-27T23:14:00.002-04:00

Lookit what we have here. Two adults in a cab, pulling it tightly between them.

Look at she, playing with the window switch, pressing it in and out and in and out, as if for all the world she would rather be anyplace elsewhere. The only thing she really wants to run from is what she wants the most. That which has collapsed himself, with affected insouciance, into the opposite corner of the cab.

Look at he, eyes out the window but his frame stretched to the middle-- as if just their feet touching doesn't mean anything, or as if just their feet touching is enough, will suffice.

And what they do here, sequestered most anonymously, speaks more to their respective characters than any public non-display of affection. (Not a shuddering whisper or hand surreptitiously clasped.)

Here, they can do anything they want. Here, they could do everything. They could ruin everything. They could sink the ship, all hands overboard.

So they do nothing.

Here, in this cab, is the most dangerous air they've breathed in years.

She giggles, to mask the fact that she's leaking a little.

Here, their pheromones erupt, envelop, congeal.
Here, he can smell her skin.
Here, she can hear his breathing.
Here, they can do anything they want. The cab driver a mute, unattendant witness.
Here, they are kind to each other, which is not the same as being kind to themselves.
Here, there is the most delicious suffering, a penitence for the wanting.
Here, they feel less safe, alone, confronted with the body of the other.
Here, they can't blame the crowd, or the music, or the booze, or the dancing.

They guard that which is bigger than them. They respect all that they hold in their hands, hearts and minds. They do nothing. They do nothing but try to be honest. They do nothing but try to float such simple paper boats to one another, blowing them with their words. They keep their mouths busy with drunken sputterings of unpolished truth and the desperation to communicate the joy it all brings.

sweat like a mason jar

2010-06-27T12:39:00.001-04:00

moments of mistrusting
the gravity of my own pen
in the absence of
a poet's validation--
even now,
I doubt the soundness of that estimation.

but what an awful lot of Trouble,
and energy
and lies
if what he wants
so desperately to read
is writ between my thighs.

My Fault, I Suppose. [a moment. unhappened. why not?]

2010-06-27T12:27:00.000-04:00

[this is what did not happen.]

"I have to go."
"Hurry home?"
"Yeah, I need to get home."
"Are expected home, you mean?"
"... Yeah, I'm expected home."
"Interesting. A curious situation, that."
"How so?"
"I'm curious. About it. The situation. That's all."
"What do you want to know?"
"Hah. I think you know you have me at a disadvantage..."
"Ask a question. I'll try to answer it in a non-self-incriminating way."
"Incriminate away."
"Ask."
"That's a nice location, below Houston Street."
"... Yes. It is."
"I've never met her."
"She works alot."
"She came out to the show, once, right?"
"Yeah."
"She's a blonde? Strawberry blonde?"
"Something like that."
"Sugar mamas must be hard to come by. Surely you wanna lock that down."
"Listen, she's great, she loves me, we support each other."
"There was a pronoun or two omitted in that sentence."
"I'm gonna go."
"My fault, I suppose."
"You shouldn't ask questions you don't want answers to."
"Well, you know what they say about curiosity."
"What?"
"Killed the cat."
"Be careful getting home."
"Meow."

Merely A Conduit

2010-06-27T12:18:00.001-04:00

Eva: He's my dad. He's not just some boy.
Artemis: Then why doesn't he grow the fuck up and act like it?
E: I... agree but--
A: If he was any other person, not related to you, you'd have cut him out by now.
E: ... Yes.
A: I don't make these decisions for you, Eva. I may employ the tactics, I may captain the charge, but you've already given the order. Made the choice. I'm merely a conduit.
E: Your methods can be cruel and unusual.
A: Your experiences and sensitivity are far from the usual. People ARE cruel. Or do you suddenly forget the entirety of your pubescence?
E: When will you-- I-- we let go of that and start living MY adult life?!
A: You don't let go of your past, Eva, it grows into YOU. Like a tree trunk that grows around a mountain or an imperfection in marble. It becomes PART of you. How you use the knowledge and foresight your past gives you is what makes you an adult.

Rumors Of My Death, Exaggerated, Greatly, Etc.

2010-06-23T19:23:00.001-04:00

So, for the five or so of you that might care, I've been absent from posting in this blog for the past week and a half, mainly because I've been trying something new and exciting: Writing with a partner! The utterly inimitable jp schuffman(his blog, The Big Blue Chair, showcases his poetry and general badassery) and I have been rather inspired by our collaboration and conception of a world not that far far away from this one. I've never written with another person before, much less another poet, and it's really quite exhilarating. The concept is lush, riddled with possibility-- tragedy and legend of epic and modern proportions abound.

I hesitate to write much of what I've done in this forum, considering the highly experimental and exploratory nature of the thing, as well as the trust there is in knowing the other is the only who's eyes have foraged up and down one's freshly delivered piece. Umbilical still attached and all that.

Obsession

2010-06-21T03:26:00.001-04:00

Somedays, I think about you so much, that as I drift off to sleep at night, I kind of remember some sort of brief social interaction in which I saw you and proved my independence of your special kind of fucking amazing.

Somedays, if I text you as often as I wonder about you, you'd call the cops.

The Sweet, Singed Smell of Roasted Balloons

2010-06-19T14:15:00.000-04:00

"John Murdock, you have been an amazing influence on my life. We have a chemistry, right? Yeah, there's something there. You like girls who dress like Punky Brewster, I dress like Punky Brewster. By the way, did you realize, when you said that, that Punky Brewster is TWELVE? Ah, yes, I used to want to fuck you, then I watched your stand up. I realized you'd had more laser surgery than, well, Paulina here. And that your dad was probably not going to pay for MINE, so I should just eat that loss there."

What a fucking night. My favorite quote, from Noah Levin, the Assistant Professor of Comedy: "If you haven't seen Sara G's tits, you probably don't remind her of her dad."

Dignity and Earrings

2010-06-18T01:38:00.000-04:00

Eva: I could stay here all day with him!
Isolde: Uh, Eva, I'm pretty sure you should start trying to find your underwear.
E: What? No way. I have things to talk about with him. Interesting things. And he hasn't asked me to leave.
I: He's sitting at his computer, darlin'.
E: Yeah, but he's brewing coffee--
I: Eva, make moves. He's a nice guy, but he doesn't want to hang out with you.
E: Okay, but it's not because he doesn't like me, right? He thinks I'm cool, too.
I: He thinks you're crazy. And he likes that in his bed, but not in his real life.
E: ...but we talked about intelligent things-- naked! I can practically HEAR him falling in love with me!
I: What you hear is that goddamn rooster crowing for the 16th time.
E: We're smoking a cigarette. Together.
I: And then you'll leave.
E: ...he definitely just called someone and made other plans in front of me.
I: Don't lose your dignity AND your earrings.
E: You know, you're right...
I: I'll get you into it, and I'll get you out-- just dig those spurs in, sweetheart.
E: ...this feeling--
I: Sucks. I know. Let's get out of here and do something useful.

Come now, give him a kiss. Casual does not mean impolite.

porch swings II

2010-06-17T21:14:00.001-04:00

i clipped the heart's wings
to save the porch swings-
funnel clouds and gale winds
entangling the poor things.
but you keep re-stringin' these wings
and keepin' me in harm's way.

6/16/2010

2010-06-17T00:06:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, I get worried
that I will sit in this room
and go so fucking crazy that
I post fliers around the edge of my desk
and the front of the fridge
and the top of the commode
and wait
for the mice to send emails
wait on Gmail
for the roaches
and rock and mutter and smoke and cry
until they send some big Spanish guy
to pull me and all my things
up outta this apartment--
put my shit out on the sidewalk,
and me alongside it, barking
and snarling.
fuck it all,
I tried it,
you started it.

Trouble

2010-06-16T17:49:00.000-04:00

Some people go looking for trouble.
Trouble sometimes looks for you.
Sometimes, Trouble goes looking for love--
And Trouble ain't nothin', if Trouble ain't true.
Oft times, when Trouble goes looking for herself
(in that smeared reflect, behind the top left shelf),
she loses the objective in the bottoms of glasses,
and the inkwell eyes of smart boys with cute asses,
and flashes of a certain lupine face,
fang and grace,
and her desire to learn how each of them tastes,
and the gravitational clumsiness
of his lascivious gaze.

Trouble, you might say, has business of her own to take care of,
and so little time to waste.

Ye Gods

2010-06-14T17:38:00.000-04:00

you have no idea. we are stranded in a doomed dystopia. which means we are essentially dead, it's only a matter of time.
the doomed also fall in love, human nature cannot be stopped.
he cupped my jaw as we clung to each other in the corridor and listened to the silence that screamed right by us-- he whispered, suddenly and fervently, of our love, and how it was richer and more real than any sort of imaginary virus--
it's all in their heads, he says, it's all in their heads.
stay in my head, he pleads.
stay in my head, stay on my tongue,
keep my letters in line, ours springs have not sprung.
we are healthy and coiled, ready to discourse,
when language is scanty, love's the only recourse.
lips teeth and tongue digging bomb shelters in earnest,
we build a monument to love, before catastrophe spurns us.
and god knows, hell hath no fury,
and i'm angry as hell
that the night we first coiled round each other
was when the first contaminants fell.
(opened, burst forth, emerged, revealed themselves)
arrival as silent as the havoc they wreak,
we took for granted all the husky pillowspeak,
the syrupy drops of lust we spilt verbally
onto static sheets of love,
we would've siphoned right back up,
had we known what was to come.

the sound of a film projector, flagging to the end of the roll

2010-06-13T17:38:00.001-04:00

that's what my black outs sound like.

as conductor
of many
an orchestral swell, myself--
I caution amateurs
against jumping into the pit, tails first.
Maybe less an orchestra, than a lone, inexpert but impassioned player.
fretting the ways and means
of a smash and grab,
bowing the tensile
bounce of the ties that bind,
his idle hands making devils' work of our minds,
while we chase the oblivion we feel so entitled to.
until the sunrise wakes me up like a slap to the back of the head.
my last real memory was not in this room, not in this bed.
my mental camera ran out of film as we landed, a little entangled.

Margarine

2010-06-12T14:33:00.001-04:00

All things are forgiven. A drunkenly insistent text message barrage and a blackout fuck are forgiven, because to hold grudges would weigh us down and make this not fun any more. All things are forgiven, because, why not?

This is what I like to call the margarine of love.
It tastes like it in a pinch. Satisfies for the moment, but once you have the time and the resources, you'll pick up some real butter at the store.

I'm pretty sure I lost my black notebook, a reality I have not yet faced up to, being as I'm pretty shakily hungover and freshly fucked.

I'm having the time of my fucking LIFE.

I Only Wrote Porn At Work Today. Honest.

2010-06-11T18:38:00.000-04:00

I wrote porn all day at work today. I don't do it often, but I'm pretty okay with that. The question is, are YOU okay with that?
I'll give you some time to think, because it's not my intention to force explicit erotica upon readers that might either be related or might as well be, and thus, squicked out by my sexytime, or get anyone in trouble on some monitored internet connection. So here's fair warning:

The next three or four paragraphs are going to be 1. explicitly sexual and 2. explicitly fictional. Now make your adult choice.

Enjoy.
---------------------------------------------
Because I'm drunk, horny, and cocky, I went straight for my arms around his neck and a peck on the lips. It's just, we know what's up when each other's around. His hand slips to the small of my back as we kiss; he pulls me into him more deeply and sighs as I slip my tongue in for more-- he pulls away and looks at me, a lust-sodden smirk on his face, gum clamped in his left jaw. He squeezes me and we exchange pleasantries. He buys me a drink. I say hi to all his friends whose names I never ever remember and it becomes all but a countdown. I am warm and pliable in his grip-- he slips a hand under my skirt as he talks to his friends, his fingers sliding delicately into the fold where my thigh ends and soft curls begin. I want to scream with delight, back myself up against the wall and mount his hand, but I don't. I drag my fingernails across his back and pull him closer, smiling and dazed-- there is no conversation for me, I have come only for him, and he can smell it. His friends drift away and his attention drips on me. He takes his hand from my skirt and licks his finger.
"You taste so fucking hot. I want to rip that skirt right offa you." He kisses me and I smell myself on his mouth.
This is too much, we are too much for each other. My humidity is too thick and raw for his pistil to resist. We excuse ourselves and he presses me to the brick wall of the bar, around the corner, one hand in my shirt, one hand on my jaw as he kisses and pulls me up, into him. He murmurs in my ear that I have been a major distraction, a bad girl for being so hot and ready for him, ruining his concentration, that he wants to get face-deep between my legs until I beg him for mercy, that he wants to fuck my face while playing with my tits, he wants to fuck me in the ass while I'm laying on my belly-- he lifts me up slightly, only one of my feet is on the ground and the pulsating heat of his hard-on pinions me to the wall like a lackadaisical butterfly, the fulcrum to the dilapidated see-saw of my hips. His mouth is hungry and warm and he may as well be tonguing my clit, he's licking everything out of me, stoking my fire with his soft, consuming lips.
We are somewhat hidden from the street and he pulls the top of my tank top down, exposing the hard bud of my nipple to the cool air for a split second before he's mouthing it, firmly pressing my bucking body against the brick. We're emboldened by the alcohol-- we can't finish ourselves here. Still, he lifts up my skirt and pulls aside my panties, slides two fingers into me and we moan together.
"Oh fuck you" I whimper.
"No, fuck you" He grins back and we fucking laugh and laugh and laugh and then we fuck and fuck and fuck. And laugh some more.

Social Anxiety and Male Attention

2010-06-10T11:19:00.000-04:00

I lost my wallet for the fifth time two nights ago, on the Bedford Ave stop of the L train. Out of all the things I could have possibly lost from my purse, the wallet is the most replaceable. If I'd lost my iPod or my notebook, my creative life would have slammed to a halt, and I'd be clinging by fingertips to a(rare) Cliff of Sanity.

I still feel anxious and find myself giving in to male attention just to feel validated in some way. But sexual validation and artistic validation are miles and wintry miles apart in terms of staying power.

The difference, this time around, is that I 1. didn't have a panic attack when I realized my wallet was gone because, 2. I was able to talk myself down and reassure myself that we've done this before, we can fix this. Money comes and goes, losing $60+ sucks, but it isn't the end of the world, and it's not what stands between me and eviction. I held my own hand and pet my own face, and probably blended in with the rest of the crazies on the train at 2am, but I didn't run to a bar or text some boy that may soothe me with casual platitudes. I maintained.

This past week has been exhausting. Dracula's last weekend was sold out, I was working a shift and then heading to the show, one of the other girls at work decided that this weekend was ideal for going home to Michigan, so I covered for her double on Sunday, and I just generally haven't had much time to... do nothing. To just be. To just lay tangled in my sheets and stretch and wonder and read. Not perform a job, a monologue or anything for anyone.

I've found myself saying things like "I want to flirt with boys tonight", and wanting, more than anything, to be kissed and cuddled and cared for. The problem is, the sorts of situations and possibilities that I have, as a cute, charming firecracker in NYC, are all fleeting and require me to be purely in the Now, and not think towards the future. Only the physical fulfillment of now, this moment, this second, this caress, this murmur, this pucker, this taste, this skin, this sigh, this satisfaction. And I need and want more than that. So my only real option is myself. Walking and talking with myself. Reading and writing with myself.

And I'm about to walk out the door, head to the NYC DMV and get yet another replacement ID-- a process that is next to painless, unlike the dentist appointment I have at 2pm today, NYU College of Dentistry -- I'm gripped with social anxiety. Caffeine ripples through my nervous system as I contemplate the two-block walk to the subway.

Deep breaths. I love everyone.

My Desires Are Being Printed In A Slightly Smaller Font

2010-06-04T03:16:00.000-04:00

I don't know his favorite color, or his astrological sign.
I don't know his deepest secret, or what movies make him cry.
I don't know his parents' names, or what he's doing right this very minute.
I only know his hands, his mouth, and his bed, when I'm in it.
I only know his rhythm, his purr, and his stroke.
I only know the sunrise, the smell of coffee and smoke.
I don't know what night is the right night, or how soon is too soon.
I do know that the ebbing of our flow has pre-requisites of doom--
that the casual nature of our entanglement requires love not to bloom.
And it's gone on far too long for me to stay iron-hearted
So, it's rust away, lose my way, or gather courage,
finish what I started.

I don't know what's worse, though;
When I offer and you decline,
Or wondering back to some earlier time
When you pursued me relentlessly,
and I felt like a lady again--
Regardless, you still reduce me to a fidgety grin.

Infatuation in the name of art is a noble pursuit.
I'll take bites when I can,
Otherwise, savor the flavor in my sweet little tooth.
It's easy, right?
I am relieved of all responsibility--
Like behind closed doors,
when I'm howlin' like a jungle kitty.

And, it's really okay.
I wind myself up, far out of the way.
I don't make it your problem,
You want what you want.
My desires are being printed
in a slightly smaller font.

But I can't dispute your honesty,
eventual as it was.
And I can't disguise the tragedy
of my heart bucking the muzz.

And, don't get me wrong,
he's a gentleman.
Everytime, he buys my drink, holds my hand,
it's just a little sin.
And, don't get me wrong,
he's a gentle man.
Except in bed, where it matters,
he's quick with a command.

And, don't get me wrong,
he's a gentleman caller.
He calls for 3 hot hours,
makes sure I hoot and holler.

Who The Hell Are You?! Hecuba, Etc.

2010-06-03T16:04:00.000-04:00

"What are you reading?"
He pulled my book from my bag, without asking me.
I made no reply, because surely he could read.
Then I snatched the book back, as well as my agency.
"Back to my place?" he smiled, rather toothily.
"I'd just as soon stay here"
I stood against the subway pillar, rather prettily.
It's six in the morning, and I'm weaving slightly.
If I don't fucking do it, who else is gonna write me?
Fuck me? Fight me? Love me again, despite me?
Who the hell are you? And who are are you to me?
Who is he to Hecuba, and Hecuba to he?
I'll be your funny girl toy, an improvised fantasy
But I'm not the candy to your wrapper or the sugar in your cookie
Look me up and down, window shop me, permissably
I've a pretty figure, with complete concealed weaponry
But if you've got fire on your mind, be careful with the gasoline.
I cock an eyebrow to the left, it's not a gesture made trustingly
I cock my hips to the right, wanna see it, gotta pay for me.
I'm an artist in my own right, a poet in my own write,
A dancer with my own tights, a rebel with my own fight,
A singer with my own mic, a lover with my lone light,
And if you wanna get illuminated,
Find the copper for my circuit breaker.
Here's a hint: there's a mine for every shaft
But I'm a precious metal, glittering fore and aft.

Fast, Not Easy!

2010-06-03T12:53:00.001-04:00

Artemis: Eva, this guy is a toolbag.
Eva: No, no, he's totally nice, he's just... really intelligent. You know, like a genius.
A: That's stupid. And you're drunk. And I'm pretty sure he's autistic.
E: Am not drunk.
A: Are too.
Dionysia: Yeah, I'm pretty sure you're tits deep in Johnny Walker Black.
E: He keeps buying them for me!
A: Oh, so he IS a "genius". How silly of me to question you.
Isolde: Autistic guys love to fuck.
E: He's NOT autistic!
A: Oh God, you're so EASY.
E: Fast, not easy!
I: Oh, you dirty little girl, stop playing coy!
D: Get him to buy you another whisky.
I: Yeah, autistic guys love drunk girls.
E: I am not drunk, he is not autistic, and that's not true!

Do Bad(Rapey) Things

2010-06-01T17:46:00.000-04:00

The ads for True Blood that are currently running on NYC's busses freak me the hell out, but not, surely, in the way the ad guys wanted. I don't watch the show, and don't know the details, so perhaps I'm missing something. But, the ad is in public view, and is consumed by the public at large. The picture I saw is a crop of this one, Anna Paquin's white-dressed figure reclining helplessly into the blue-shirt vamp's arms, while the black-tanked vamp raises her leg with both hands and looks at the viewer suggestively, all the while the caption reads "Do Bad Things".

I'm uncomfortable with the implication that whatever Tank Vamp is about to do to Paquin Vamp(with Blue-Shirt's help) is a bad thing that we all should tune in to watch or, worse, are encouraged to engage in ourselves. I don't overestimate the effect of an advertisement on public transportation, but to underestimate the impact is ignorant at worst and dangerously conducive to rape culture at worst.

I'll Give You Free Fucking Replays

2010-06-01T17:20:00.000-04:00

It's said and studied that men, in general, fear the human condition-- ultimate, inevitable death-- more than women. The human condition terrifies one into creating a spirit world and designating heirs for their name and possessions, ensuring that they will live on, despite their demise.

I am not afraid of death. I will die and I will leave survivors. Death is the next adventure. I confess to being fascinated with death, and feel a mixture of curiosity and envy towards the dead rather than dread and terror.

Pain scares me. Rejection scares me more. Baring my heart only to have it thrown back in my face makes my throat close up. Pouring my soul earnestly into a broken bottle makes my bowels loose. Giving love to one that does not reciprocate horrifies me more than any sudden death, any supposed afterlife penitences. Being abandoned with a feverish, infected heart makes me tremble with fear.

So I face my fear every day, and love every animal in the forest, to the best of my ability. Whether they like it or not, I will not close up and shut down, reduce my most cherished vascular muscle to blood clots and scar tissue. I am the pinball to your plunger, and my love is so wild and colorful, I'll light you up, I'll score you points, I'll give you free fucking replays.

Disco Rosetta Stones

2010-05-31T11:02:00.000-04:00

I think the unfortunate truth about people like us-- intensely creative and emotional individuals-- is that we find ourselves in in situations and patterns unique to the non-creative and the logical, but very similar to others' of our kind. We then strive to represent these patterns and their relationship to the universe via whatever artform is most readily available to us.

Without us, culture would suffer. We suffer for it, and make the world a more beautiful and actualized place for those not lucky enough to feel it so viscerally.

Others are drawn to us and our power, our ferocity, like moths to the flame. Sometimes, they get combusted as well. Our lambent incandescence makes us irresistable to those not so lit up from within by love and magic. Some try to read us, gauge us, rein us in, stifle us, harness our power, put lightning in a bottle and bend us to their will. Take away our agency and put us in a box, make our power theirs, and give nothing in return. Some try to learn, try to take and emulate and sell what we give away for free, paw at the smooth transperency of our hearts, study our faces like disco Rosetta Stones.

You wonder why we are defensive, so quick with a wry word, so easy to anger and eager to abandon-- try being a work of art, a cultural touchstone, a channel for all the psychic refuse strewn about the universe, and you'll understand.

Try my brain on for size. And keep dreaming you'll fit my heart.

DANGER: Demon Feeding In Progress.

2010-05-28T12:15:00.000-04:00

There was a veritable FRENZY last night. Dionysia and Artemis teamed up, took advantage of the festive mood post-opening of Dracula AND The Sunburnt Calf's happy hour, and promptly lost my fucking mind on someone who fell asleep instead of coming to my show.

I almost got into a fight last night with some strange dude making fun of me raging into my cell phone.

I broke my fucking umbrella into pieces. I hate carrying umbrellas, but when forced to do so, I daydream about hitting people with it. Mostly people I know. Last night, I think I beat it against a tree. Or something. The details get hazy after I got off the 1 train. I don't want to look at my Recent Calls list.

I almost hit this dude who made fun of me(pretty understandably so) for screaming in utter rage. He taunted me, told me to go ahead and hit him already. I was so ready for a fight. Testosterone coursed through my system. I got chest-to-chest with him, like some aggressive high school kid. I dared HIM to hit me first. I wanted so badly to just punch him in his goddamn face, but there was this little doubt in my head as to whether that was the best idea right now, at 1:30 in the morning, unprovoked(physically speaking) and without actual reason. Something in my wine-muzzled brain volunteered that, perhaps, after I punched him in the face, this guy might grab me and hold me down while he called the police? I screamed and walked away and beat my umbrella at anything in my sight. And I deliberately destroyed that fucking umbrella.

Man, I hope the water gets turned back on soon.