visited *loading* times
southern humidity wraps like a boa constrictor as i walk out to the street. heat, clouds. in the air, sun blinds from building glass windows that reach toward the sky. then downshift to pale grey.
arrive, deposit my bag. approach alluring dark girl with fumbling words. if i threw a rock would she turn or keep going. an inside joke between us. she once told me i'd rather throw a rock at a girl than talk to get their attention. dark skin, slender, actually small. she laughs, thinks for a moment. my stomach stretches and spins. she tells me she would turn around.
a strange feeling as she turns away. a moment when everything stops. she has somewhere to be. a world full, overflowing, yet 50 kilos can turn mine upside down. a small chiseled package. she walks away then spins. a spirit, a smile. light gleams from deep, dark eyes. tell her i'll call tonight. relief on the way after a train of hollow eyed women.
later, i call. no answer, a machine, a message. hours pass without response. sky goes dark. the next day, late afternoon, i place another call. a machine responds. this time nothing before the receiver drops.
normal is what you do. for a hit man, killing is normal. to a vegetarian, tofu part of the daily routine. a pilot flies through the clouds. another day on the job. but what is normal? you know, normal normal.
a steady dive bomb of fidgeting emotions and late night groping? drinking until ice cubes press cool against my lips then refueling? alone, staring into the sky?
too much to maintain, i go for a drink. looking for answers. my shirt clings tight to my ribs and chest. it's not about mass. it's about proportional. that's why all types of women are beautiful. i do have a thing for tall ones, though.
i remember encircling my thumb and middle finger around her wrist. it's small, slender. like a child's. almost without touching. her tiny wrists cage a fiery spirit, dangerous to unleash. barely a hundred pounds, maybe 110, 115 tops. she is not hard, not like me. a big soft heart, until crossed. then anger seeps to a tirade, amazingly clear of profanity. i admire this, midstream. a mistake perhaps, costing me my edge.
at the bar, order a drink. the bartender oddly friendly making me nervous. a cigarette and long distance eyes to avoid him. a waitress, brunette, swooshes by. almost beautiful. almost silent. almost. something odd tonight. people's outfits, uniforms, costumes seem contrived. calculating the effect of each article, accessory.
notions like these swirl blindly through my consciousness. uncaring, rumbling over other notions sitting in the way. disoriented, briefly, then grounded. i light up, a deep drag, a steady deep breath out. audible.
i find myself seeking refuge in unlikely places. reflect. no closer to normal, one more drink and i'm on my way.
home now, the bed soft, comfortable. free of clothes, my chest rises and falls. slowly. the sheep are coming. eyes enamored by a yellow light, soft purple rims that glow from the street outside my window. it's close. i'm close. trapped, i almost feel liberation. it's coming soon. the sheep have come to take me away. i'm going under. try, i really try. i want to be there, awake, when it happens.
it's different than i expected. for one thing, it's hotter. and i'm running late. i park and wander outside trying to figure out which side is the entrance. it's quiet, hot summer. i hear music coming from inside. 2 black girls between child and adulthood, one in pink asks if i'm going to church. yes, i respond. she tells me the entrance is in back. walk up, open the door and follow the girls inside.
inside, an usher welcomes me. friendly. i shake his hand, like a baseball glove it engulfs mine. a woman hands me a program. the heat is oppressive. sweat beads and streams down my forehead. i fan myself with the program. an almost old black lady waves me from the aisle to sit next to her. an usher brings me cardboard on a stick to use as a fan. i'm grateful.
i look up and see the girls from work who invited me. they are up front in the choir singing. one has never looked happier. and she's always glowing. they are dancing, clapping, smiling, singing. i, the only white face.
the preacher recalls the walk from darkness into light. something for me to identify with. the darkness part anyway. raised catholic, i've been in recovery ever since. it is strange this change from don't do the wrong thing to do the right thing. disrupting the guilt balance.
the preacher illustrates the escape from darkness. a couple of questions to reflect upon. have you done this or that? yes. yes. how far back are you talking about? oh, well then. yes. the collection plate comes around. i don't have any cash with me. i check the envelope to see if they take credit cards. yeah, right. this isn't macy's, you imbecile. next time bring cash.
a number of short readings from the old and new testaments. 1 or 2 verse quotes. the woman next to me hands me a bible to follow along. i open it and try to focus on the words. the version i have seems to be different than the one everyone else has. the meanings are similar, but their are changes, subtlties in verb tense. a different name.
afterward it seems everyone wants to shake my hand. they tell me to come back. one guy says even if you go back out there and don't come back for a while. i'm not sure how to read that. then he says just come back. i was a little unprepared for all of this. you know, i'm uh here to meet someone. eventually i break away and see one of the girls from work. she introduces me to her friend, the one she is trying to set me up with.
her eyes intense swirling marbles. a wave washes me ashore. a pale black girl with oatmeal smooth skin. her voice free of cunning, soft. she asks what i've heard. tell her she was described as tall, pretty, intelligent, then i say, so far you're 2 for 3. she says she's not that tall. my mind races. pretty is an understatement. i say something asinine about her height. she says she will give her friend the number for me to call. it sounds suspect. i say cool or something and we both melt into the crowd.
i break for the cool comfort of air conditioning. i can deal with heat, but not in these clothes. it is all but unbearable. i see more people, shake a few more hands and i'm off. i call the girl from work when i get home. she's caustic to me, in a good natured way. she volunteers that she's not looking for a boyfriend now, but not sure she means it. we get along famously in a sparring sort of way and i like her too. she gives me her friend's number then we talk for almost an hour. hang up confused in a good mood.
she agrees to meet. he passes waterlogged branches hanging low after 10 rainy days. bob marley, african herbsman plays. open the sunroof, shift into third. the engine buzzes with precision. sun breaks through clouds as warm air washes through the cabin. windows down, alert now. almost home.
later she climbs the stairs, wondering when it became so hot. knuckles first, she knocks at the door. inside, a bang, something dropped. an obscenity she can't make out. the sound of footsteps on hardwood, the door opens.
he waves her in. before she's inside, he's on his way back to the kitchen, saying something that sounds like come in. she follows. he pulls a pan off the burner, sizzling. he whisks eggs, drops pasta to boiling water. a steaming cauldron of activity. a moment, a pause in the rhythm of the kitchen. he looks over and finally smiles. he admires her cheekbones and strong jaw. a mix of smooth and hard, her skin the color of tea. an unconventional beauty. slender arms, powerful tiny wrists determined to clutch an elusive and fleeting grip. a drink offered.
a powerful, addictive opposite. she is sharp and does not take shit from him, provoking electric encounters. mental games interlope discussions of difference. a swinging pendulum of gentle to torment and back again. intrigued by her small, rugged softness and she by something she could not yet put a finger on.
a mother with a son. she takes it seriously, strangely adding to his interest. maybe because something is truly important to her.
her smile disarms. he gnaws gently at his lower lip. brown eyes gleam. his world volatile, hers kind but strong. two drawn to juste-milieu. a smile, inviting. her lips wet, he moves in closer, her small body firm, yet soft to the touch. his arm reaches around, his hand abdominal. he pulls, she pushes, drowned when her tiny body presses back hard. hips grabbed, hands warm.
he wakes. a surge follows the dream as he showers and dresses for the day. on the drive, he opens windows, then sunroof, waiting in vain for the feeling to blow away.
she's tall, yes taller than me. i like someone to look up to. perhaps power? power over something greater than me in nature? maybe. maybe long legs. no matter, tall charges my electrons like a hit from the jackson 5.
there's a man, a little man with a napoleon complex. empowers himself through demanding terms. he thinks he's out to get me.
i believe in playing well with others. i don't have to like everyone, but i can get along with 98% of people out there. ok 95%.
that said, now that this little man thinks he has become a full sized person, he tries things that will prove his new position in the world. something must be done worthy of his new stature. out to prove that his height is a mere accident. not his height in nature, because that was simply a biological error. some dna forgot where to put the decimal point.
the little man seeks to prove his position, his value by demeaning the value of others. this way, his standing will be greater as his opponents are reduced to rubble. well, little man, i have news. i am a nice guy. like i said, i can get along with most folks, most of the time. you better get your weight up kid. you do not want to do this, i assure you.
he does not listen though. he does not obey the yellow signs ahead. insists that he can take the curve doing 60 even though the sign clearly says 25 miles per hour. you will be, in the words of jane's addiction, coming down the mountain.
her hair dark, she's tan, maybe too tan. her hair an idyllic combination of brown and red. a deep mahogany. not too thin, not fat, but not a skeleton in my closet. we sip drinks on the patio. tango plays in the background. her bronzed legs outstretched diagonally beneath the black table. it is casual. i ask about her art, to see if she is still pursuing it. a talent. a talent with a full time job and 2 children. gasping for air in the sealed chamber of modern life.
it is warm, her eyes pools. layer upon layer to sink into. as i look inside, i feel i'm falling. like the dream where i fall off the bridge and wake just before i hit. that feeling. like the wind is knocked out of me, but then there is the accompanying relief that i have not been crushed on impact.
it is getting dark, the sweltering southern air relents ever so slightly. still soaked with moisture, like a wet towel, but the air cools dimly. our drinks cold, our bodies warm, her eyes deep and a little man has fallen today. i warned him. she didn't warn me though. i brace for impact.
her skin pale and dark. a quiet mocha. soft, foreign, inviting. i guess i expect something different. the media.
media, rap star baby mama, she's s class
run down to vegas, bling bling, flossing now, smoke the kool filter king
soon, too soon it will be all over
at the last stop
it wasn't like that. the soft smell of vanilla or caramel, and springtime. oh yes, she's in balance. i am confident that i will never smell this good. warm to the touch, a smile slowly percolates across her jaw. she wears a summer dress. good, i can't stand formality. it's so damn...southern.
afterward, her girl friends envelop. tall, the lightest of her friends, worlds darker than i will ever be. we talk, it's kind of awkward. i can't remember the last woman i met without a guinness in my right hand. it's nice, i suppose. for lack of a better word. how strange is this? i haven't been to church in...i'm going to say 15 years. the only white soul. a strange quizzical look here and there. for the most part friendly people. good people. i get to meet a lot and can't remember anyone's name after the 2nd handshake. we're out on the lawn, it's early afternoon, may. nashville heat already pressing down on the congregation as they fan out.
someone shoves lemonade into my hand at some point and as the cool, sweet sour juices pass my lips, the southern experience clicks if only for a moment. another round of introductions. i must look like i need to be rescued because before i realize it, i am in the back of an suv with her, her sleeveless floral dress clinging just slightly behind her shoulder.
we are going to eat, and since i didn't eat breakfast, this is moving along well. i'm still puzzled, though. there are good people left in the world? i'm suspicious. i try to enjoy the ride and the sound of the voice next to me. i relax. have i missed out all these years?
we eat and people ask me questions and she fends them off, sometimes. i try to be honest and it's really tough avoiding profanity, considering that on some days it amounts to two thirds of my vocabulary. i ask them questions, and it's interesting racial detente. thanks dave chappelle. he is skilled at walking the race tightrope. make fun of everyone. equally.
after lunch, we pick up my car. i start it then turn to brown eyes, deep puddles to fall into. the smell coming from her sternum intoxicates like a six pack of guinness. philtrum slopes to upper lip. i lean forward and press her head back slightly. teeth nuzzle a lower lip. a right hand gently squeezes behind her neck. eyes closed, colors are neither black nor white but worth the wait.
a crisp tingle as ice cubes ricochet into the bottom of the glass. it was hot out, too hot for liquor really. these days, who can find beer, much less wine? the canadian whiskey, a gift from a friend, leaving. getting ice here is tricky. damn near impossible, actually. but essential.
dirty. hot. a place once revered for its classics. traditions. architecture. now this. the whiskey pours softly over the glistening cubes already melting. some of the local sweet, dark cola. i guess. it tastes like jagermeister without quite the bite. and it's the mixer. light a cigarette. it dulls the bite as i swallow. eventually the whiskey goes straight over ice, but it's best to start slow, in my experience.
a bird flies into the window. landing on the ledge, really. it sits, looking inside, then out. the window is hinged and propped open like a door. every window, every opening open. light and dust spill in, a ceiling fan to chase shadow faces around the room. the fan threatens to go on strike. daily. hell aspires to be this hot and miserable.
still better in so many ways than back home. joy comes in small packages here. ice cubes, an american cigarette, meat unspoiled. a trip across town without a bullet invading six feet of personal space that compresses and expands daily. in a crowd, wounded or children, there is no choice but to get in the middle. anything to help. keep moving to prevent shock. stop and reflect at what's going on here, even for a minute, you're fucked. seriously. people stop to rest. within days they are out of the country. or dead. it is too much to wrap a fragile human mind around. the brain goes into shock and shuts down. people wander stupified. if no one looks out for them, they step on a landmine or wander into a nest of snipers trying to kill each other.
back home, i drove a nice car. nothing fancy, but nice. i've eaten in a great restaurant, with a great chef. still feeling a dissatisfaction. no one is dissatisfied here. no time to think, to complain, about things that cannot be changed. bread, some clean water and on a good day, a cigarette. people just want the war, this madness, to be over. in order to appreciate something, you have to go without it. it's the change, the swing, from not having to having that brings pleasure. to have and continue to have, becomes ordinary. expected. nothing is taken for granted here.
canadian whiskey is a good way to spend the afternoon. a little after 3 now, with no sleep since i awoke at 5 o'clock yesterday morning. i find myself getting up earlier here than i ever would in the old life. wake up to go see the shit, the absolute insanity. terms like ethnic cleansing or genocide are tossed around by the media trying to label what's happening here. trying to get one word to explain this is ludicrous. there is no such word. it asks too much.
news reports don't start with 'oh my god! if you could see what i see, smell what i smell. it is sickening. how can people sit idly and watch this happen? these atrocities. these people are being eliminated. en masse.' they don't have stories on the front page like 'i saw a girl, maybe 7, 8 years old. walking behind an old man half carrying her mother, bloodied. the little girl walks holding her mother's arm. looking closer, i realize she is holding her mother's arm up. to keep it. from falling off. the arm hangs by a few tendons, like a brassiere strap a couple years past its expiration date.'
no you don't hear any of that. and probably don't want to. that's why i drink whiskey in the middle of the afternoon. because i am exhausted beyond exhaustion and there is no end in sight. blood splashes the streets, hallways. i get the feeling that no one outside the country gives a damn. whiskey can temper emotions or enflame them. no sleep. no sleep. no energy left for rage. smoke rifts up from the burning butt out the open window chasing the bird into the open air. i kick off my shoes. i hope i don't get too drunk and forget my prayers to save me from the shelling tonight. a deep swallow empties the glass. i probably worry too much.
today
August 2006
July 2006
May 2006
March 2006
January 2006
August 2005
July 2005
June 2005
May 2005
October 2004
August 2004
June 2004
May 2004
April 2004
March 2004
February 2004
January 2004
December 2003
November 2003
October 2003
September 2003
Template by motime.com