It wasn't what I expected. At the very least, I expected a stage. There wasn't one. Instead of a stage the performers danced and sang on a piece of wood dirtier than the floor around it. The lights are dim as you push a heavy wooden door open. You walk down a musty flight of stairs and you find yourself in a room that may have at one point been called a studio. Now it is half dressing room half performance space, lonely and forgotten with only a cracked vanity mirror, dark and lightless, to watch the theatricalities.
I watch the performers prepare with far too much hope. I want nothing more than to be blown away by power and strength and technique.
"Put that chair there."
"Sure."
"Thanks."
"No problem."
I return to my space to watch. The lights dim as a middle-aged woman takes center stage. She is beautiful, though something about her prevents me from truly believing her to be so. There is something in the high angle of her nose, the proud way she looks at her audience. There is in her eyes a drive to become something better, an intense nostalgia for some top note once hit on the better side of thirty. Her performance is very nearly good.
Next is a younger woman. Singing and dancing are new pursuits to her, and it shows in the way she carries herself. Her movements have none of the sharpness and vigor of the women standing beside her. She casts sidelong glances at the audience when she thinks no one is watching her, and she looks sillier for it. But she is beautiful. Unlike the woman before her, the beauty is there. It is self-evident. There is an honesty to her voice.
Finally, a duet. It is a song I already know, a song I love. I whoop and cheer as the two begin to sing. The first one is, also, very nearly good. She moves with a confidence and fluidity not easily found. But the second. Oh god, the second. My enthusiasm dies with her pitch.
"I need you to strike that chair."
"During intermission?"
"Right after. When the house lights are down."
"Will do."
"Thanks."
"No problem."
I am disappointed. I wanted so much to be in the presence of those far beyond my reach. I wanted to be dwarfed in power and strength and technique and experience. I found none of those things that night in the studio-dressing room beneath the musty stairs.
"It's ten. You ought to get going."
"Is there anything else I can help with?"
"No, we should be okay."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"Alright. Have a good night."
"Good night. See you on Friday."
"Thanks."
"No problem."
I walk up the musty stairs and push the heavy wooden door in the opposite direction. Cheap music, cheap light; they litter the street. I turn around to see the building I came out of. I am again disappointed: it has not become the Apollo Theatre. A dirty wooden sign with the letters "TMS" painted in black letters hung on a peg above the door, behind which I could still hear voices, proud of their owners' musical progress. I turn around once more. Cars veer across the street, becoming blurs of metal. There is chaos here, larger than me, larger than any life. I close my eyes and step out onto the world, so that it might take me.
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
Sunday, August 17, 2014
BLUE SUIT
They told me evil was the skull.
They told me evil was
The glowing eye,
The smoking mouth.
To be sure,
A caricature.
Evil, they told me,
Is the thing hiding behind black cloaks,
Plotting and scheming.
Because the plotters
And the schemers
Are always the evil ones.
Always, also, dark. Always so dark.
I wonder, though, if instead of skulls and snakes and vampires,
If evil is the man in the clean blue suit,
Drinking straight whiskey on the rocks.
If evil,
True evil,
Is just the shadow
Of another person, only too bored to care.
Of another person, only too bored to care.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
AIMLESS
I was listening to the Beatles one Sunday morning when the world seemed to upend itself on my cigarette. I had been trying to quit it for a while at that point. The Beatles, that is. What, did you think I meant the cigarettes? No, no. The cigarettes are a necessity. To cut those out would be the metaphorical equivalent of castration. Or seppuku. Only not quite as rational as either of those things. Because when you cut your balls off or slice open your insides, you've inevitably got some pretty good reasons for doing so: either you want to sing notes too high for a normal person or you want to preserve your honor in the face of imminent death. But quitting smoking? That's just a bad idea. There are no high notes or ritualistic self-sacrifices in quitting smoking. I mean, I could understand quitting alcohol. That's just plain expensive. What is it, ten bucks a bottle? And that's for the bad stuff. If you want to be a really good alcoholic you're going to need to be making some serious bank to fund yourself. But carton of smokes is, like, two bucks. You get to be dirt poor and find evanescent meaning in life at the same time, and all for the price of two(-ish) dollars! Besides, I've found that being rich isn't all that great anyway. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. I used to be pretty rich, don't cha know. I rolled in the BIG BUCKS. Like, I was student council president and athlete of the year in high school, even though it was the most annoying thing I've ever done. And then, at this other place called Yale, I had to deal with the most pretentious people you've ever met in your life. Dear god, the way they'd go on about being future leaders of the world or whatever. I left that place ASAP, and then I worked for this bank or whatever. But then I quit, even though I made some serious dough. Don't look at me like that. It was SO UNBELIEVABLY BORING. Seriously, it was like spending the day washing a Prius for some fat tourist that wanted his windows cleaned with rat tears. So now I'm here. And I'm free. Come to think of it, I really only started smoking after I quit that stupid job. So I guess it was a good thing I quit; I wouldn't have found out about these little babies if I hadn't.
Wow. I went on a tangent. Let me get back to what I started with. I remember when the world flipped over 'cause, it was the most I'd thought in a while. The cigs do a pretty good job of covering me up on the "emotions and thoughts" fronts, but once in a while they break through anyway. And so one day I was listening to the Beatles one Sunday afternoon when the world just kind of flipped. Like, just completely turned over. Like, my bedsheets were floating from the ceiling and the lights glared at me from the floor and I just sat there, thinking. I thought about the fact that this was the first time I had thought in a while, and I thought about my mom, and my dad, and those phonies from Yale. I thought about cigarettes. I thought about alcohol. I thought that my tiny little life hadn't turned out the way I had thought it would. But then again, I guess I didn't really know what I expected.
Wow. I went on a tangent. Let me get back to what I started with. I remember when the world flipped over 'cause, it was the most I'd thought in a while. The cigs do a pretty good job of covering me up on the "emotions and thoughts" fronts, but once in a while they break through anyway. And so one day I was listening to the Beatles one Sunday afternoon when the world just kind of flipped. Like, just completely turned over. Like, my bedsheets were floating from the ceiling and the lights glared at me from the floor and I just sat there, thinking. I thought about the fact that this was the first time I had thought in a while, and I thought about my mom, and my dad, and those phonies from Yale. I thought about cigarettes. I thought about alcohol. I thought that my tiny little life hadn't turned out the way I had thought it would. But then again, I guess I didn't really know what I expected.
Monday, August 11, 2014
1337
Y teh Interwebz shud b free, by xxeLFwArRioRxx_81.
teh Interwebz nvr was urs to control
n00bz, teh internets r fr33 4all
and wen u try 2 take it dwn
u will b pwned
by teh 1337 skilz
of the pplz.
ANONS will find u
and pwn u so hard,
ur cred will all wash away
Nd ull be left with nuthing
*(@&#^&^!
&#@&#%^!
@#&^%er
%)&#ker
!!%#&*&+))
U ARNT WELCM HERE
teh Interwebz nvr was urs to control
n00bz, teh internets r fr33 4all
and wen u try 2 take it dwn
u will b pwned
by teh 1337 skilz
of the pplz.
ANONS will find u
and pwn u so hard,
ur cred will all wash away
Nd ull be left with nuthing
*(@&#^&^!
&#@&#%^!
@#&^%er
%)&#ker
!!%#&*&+))
U ARNT WELCM HERE
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
BLOOD
I create my own madness.
It swirls about the ether of my wanton imagination, and settles as I drift.
I drift, willing dimming eyes to an invisible light
That shines through wintry windows.
Those windows are frosted now;
God traded the sun for dead ice.
The ice seems colder than usual,
And on my twisted throne, so do I.
I long for war,
The heat of it, the brutal glory.
Blood, though, in all of its humanity,
Is not the spring I seek.
It swirls about the ether of my wanton imagination, and settles as I drift.
I drift, willing dimming eyes to an invisible light
That shines through wintry windows.
Those windows are frosted now;
God traded the sun for dead ice.
The ice seems colder than usual,
And on my twisted throne, so do I.
I long for war,
The heat of it, the brutal glory.
Blood, though, in all of its humanity,
Is not the spring I seek.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
BOSS
Watch the way he lies;
The way he won't look you in the eyes.
Sometimes, I wander about,
Searching, searching and I end up starting to shout.
Because nothing seems to turn up,
And no one seems to care.
I wanted such a little thing
But he says that's not fair.
I one time took a coffee break,
A minute or two long to shake
The cobwebs out my head.
Then he turned up,
Red and fuming ears.
He told me to get back to work,
Because wouldn't stand to watch me shirk
My duties.
My intern duties.
In short, I'd like to say,
Because of all the times in a single day
My boss's soul
Is like a giant a-hole.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
DECRESCENDO
Quiet. Not a whisper of breath, no. Nothing.
The boy had been coming here for as long as he could remember, and yet not a thing had changed. At times he found it bit strange, the way that the number of rocks alongside the banks of the silent pond never seemed to dwindle: regardless of the long, contented hours he spent with the other kids skipping stones across the surface of the blue-green portal to Poseidon, the rocks always seemed to refill themselves, as though replaced by smirking nymphs.
He spent his days quietly walking around the forest in which the camp was found, wandering from tree to lurching tree, feeling in his ears and feet the way the leaves and twigs would crunch underneath his weight. Above him the sunlight wafted through the shattered, shifting openings in between branches, throwing shafts of broken light upon the roughshod path over which he walked. He found a flowing peace within these moments, which was broken only by physical memory of recent bruises. Whenever his injuries pained him he shuddered, not from the pain, but from the memories of broken whiskey bottles and his sisters' wide, terrified eyes. His visited them once in a while, but they didn't seem to want him around. It would have been fine if they simply hadn't wanted to talk; he would have been more than content to sit by them and simply watch the sun rise and fall. But whenever he visited them they just screamed. "He's here! He's here! Get him away!"they would screech, the same terrified look in their eyes. Usually the the old man in white coat would kindly ask him to leave at that point, and usually he would go. Once, he tried to force his sisters to recognize him, and when he got too close one of them threw a glass of water at him. It shattered across his cheek, and as the old man in the white coat dragged him out of the room, he heard them scream "You'll never hurt us again!"with an air of triumphant pride. As a pretty nurse stitched his cheek back together the boy stared, frozen with terror, at the mirror across the room; his father glared from out of the mirror with an expression of dark anger. The pretty nurse smiled at him.
"Why, aren't you just the bravest thing! Not a tear out of you!"
He trembled.
At night the older kids would huddle the younger ones around the campfire and tell stories. He found most of them dull, but the one older girl always kept him spellbound. She would sit, legs crossed, and take a deep breath. Her lips opened and closed, and he saw the old stories, streaking through his mind like Olympic runners. As she spoke, her eyes, sparking and blazing, reflected the light of the fire before her .Entire worlds faded, until there was nothing left for the boy words and the mist that seemed, cloaked the girl's figure. He returned to his cabin each night, filled with wonder and awe, to replay the tales. He put himself in the sandals of the great heroes, as theirs were always the most interesting. Their humble beginnings, the ways they rose to strength, and their inevitable failures, they were his. And in his fevered imaginings he changed the courses of rivers as beautiful goddesses beset him, instructing him to find winged sandals and mirrored shields in the crooks of ancient olive trees. Imaginings turned into dreams, and his dreams faded into his vision. On lonely nights he entered the space between wakefulness and sleep, and there bright figures wielding spears and thunderbolts would laugh, drinking from goblets that smelled of spring and rebirth. These half-dreams never stayed with him, and the only evidence he ever had of their existence was a nostalgic pang. Then he would sigh, and walk out into the forest.
The days and nights began to merge into seamless continuation. The boy slept less, preferring instead to spend his nights on the lookout for passing nymphs and dryads. Though he would have gladly spent his nights outside, searching, a counselor caught him out at midnight and ordered him back into his cabin. He did it again and an older camper was put into his cabin to keep him inside. When the boy asked him what his name was he had shyly responded with "Kevin". The boy didn't mind Kevin too much; Kevin never bothered him, and after a few mornings where Kevin had woken up and found the boy missing, the two came to a sort of understanding: the boy would be free to leave as long as he left a note and the sun had risen. The boy and Kevin talked once in a while, though Kevin always seemed a bit afraid to speak to him.
The boy slept only when he felt as though his heart would stop. When he did allow himself to close his eyes in rest he always did so outside, by the base of some tree, as far away from the campgrounds as he could walk before collapsing. After waking up he would walk back to the camp, listen to the girl with the sparking eyes, and return to his cabin, where he would spend the night within himself.
One day he saw them. This time he was sure it was no trick of the imagination; he had just woken from a deep sleep. He was by his favorite tree, far away from camp. It was dark; the sun had long since gone down. Before him stood a smiling woman. She was beyond beautiful, but unearthly. Her skin was a pale, pale green: the color of leaves reborn in the spring. Her eyes, like wine grapes, was a deep purple. Her hair, brown and yellow, was threaded with slender vines and pale, pink flowers. She was naked. She smiled at him, and disappeared into the foliage. Stunned, the boy sat by the tree by which he had fallen asleep, completely silent. Then with a rush of energy he sprinted into the woods.
He ran for hours. Every once in a while the figure would appear in the corner of his eye, smiling and coy, and the boy would renew his vigor. Each time she appeared, he came closer and closer to her. Eventually, she came so close that the boy jumped, in the manner of a football tackle, towards the figure. If his brain had had the time to react, it might have had time to create despair as the dryad disappeared. The boy fell.
They found him there, hours later, eye and brain pierced by a particularly large branch. His blood was barely visible beneath the autumn leaves that buried him.
It is quiet. Not a whisper.
The boy had been coming here for as long as he could remember, and yet not a thing had changed. At times he found it bit strange, the way that the number of rocks alongside the banks of the silent pond never seemed to dwindle: regardless of the long, contented hours he spent with the other kids skipping stones across the surface of the blue-green portal to Poseidon, the rocks always seemed to refill themselves, as though replaced by smirking nymphs.
He spent his days quietly walking around the forest in which the camp was found, wandering from tree to lurching tree, feeling in his ears and feet the way the leaves and twigs would crunch underneath his weight. Above him the sunlight wafted through the shattered, shifting openings in between branches, throwing shafts of broken light upon the roughshod path over which he walked. He found a flowing peace within these moments, which was broken only by physical memory of recent bruises. Whenever his injuries pained him he shuddered, not from the pain, but from the memories of broken whiskey bottles and his sisters' wide, terrified eyes. His visited them once in a while, but they didn't seem to want him around. It would have been fine if they simply hadn't wanted to talk; he would have been more than content to sit by them and simply watch the sun rise and fall. But whenever he visited them they just screamed. "He's here! He's here! Get him away!"they would screech, the same terrified look in their eyes. Usually the the old man in white coat would kindly ask him to leave at that point, and usually he would go. Once, he tried to force his sisters to recognize him, and when he got too close one of them threw a glass of water at him. It shattered across his cheek, and as the old man in the white coat dragged him out of the room, he heard them scream "You'll never hurt us again!"with an air of triumphant pride. As a pretty nurse stitched his cheek back together the boy stared, frozen with terror, at the mirror across the room; his father glared from out of the mirror with an expression of dark anger. The pretty nurse smiled at him.
"Why, aren't you just the bravest thing! Not a tear out of you!"
He trembled.
At night the older kids would huddle the younger ones around the campfire and tell stories. He found most of them dull, but the one older girl always kept him spellbound. She would sit, legs crossed, and take a deep breath. Her lips opened and closed, and he saw the old stories, streaking through his mind like Olympic runners. As she spoke, her eyes, sparking and blazing, reflected the light of the fire before her .Entire worlds faded, until there was nothing left for the boy words and the mist that seemed, cloaked the girl's figure. He returned to his cabin each night, filled with wonder and awe, to replay the tales. He put himself in the sandals of the great heroes, as theirs were always the most interesting. Their humble beginnings, the ways they rose to strength, and their inevitable failures, they were his. And in his fevered imaginings he changed the courses of rivers as beautiful goddesses beset him, instructing him to find winged sandals and mirrored shields in the crooks of ancient olive trees. Imaginings turned into dreams, and his dreams faded into his vision. On lonely nights he entered the space between wakefulness and sleep, and there bright figures wielding spears and thunderbolts would laugh, drinking from goblets that smelled of spring and rebirth. These half-dreams never stayed with him, and the only evidence he ever had of their existence was a nostalgic pang. Then he would sigh, and walk out into the forest.
The days and nights began to merge into seamless continuation. The boy slept less, preferring instead to spend his nights on the lookout for passing nymphs and dryads. Though he would have gladly spent his nights outside, searching, a counselor caught him out at midnight and ordered him back into his cabin. He did it again and an older camper was put into his cabin to keep him inside. When the boy asked him what his name was he had shyly responded with "Kevin". The boy didn't mind Kevin too much; Kevin never bothered him, and after a few mornings where Kevin had woken up and found the boy missing, the two came to a sort of understanding: the boy would be free to leave as long as he left a note and the sun had risen. The boy and Kevin talked once in a while, though Kevin always seemed a bit afraid to speak to him.
The boy slept only when he felt as though his heart would stop. When he did allow himself to close his eyes in rest he always did so outside, by the base of some tree, as far away from the campgrounds as he could walk before collapsing. After waking up he would walk back to the camp, listen to the girl with the sparking eyes, and return to his cabin, where he would spend the night within himself.
One day he saw them. This time he was sure it was no trick of the imagination; he had just woken from a deep sleep. He was by his favorite tree, far away from camp. It was dark; the sun had long since gone down. Before him stood a smiling woman. She was beyond beautiful, but unearthly. Her skin was a pale, pale green: the color of leaves reborn in the spring. Her eyes, like wine grapes, was a deep purple. Her hair, brown and yellow, was threaded with slender vines and pale, pink flowers. She was naked. She smiled at him, and disappeared into the foliage. Stunned, the boy sat by the tree by which he had fallen asleep, completely silent. Then with a rush of energy he sprinted into the woods.
He ran for hours. Every once in a while the figure would appear in the corner of his eye, smiling and coy, and the boy would renew his vigor. Each time she appeared, he came closer and closer to her. Eventually, she came so close that the boy jumped, in the manner of a football tackle, towards the figure. If his brain had had the time to react, it might have had time to create despair as the dryad disappeared. The boy fell.
They found him there, hours later, eye and brain pierced by a particularly large branch. His blood was barely visible beneath the autumn leaves that buried him.
It is quiet. Not a whisper.
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