Of Angels & Other Things

Previously…

He remembered his second-to-first time, almost as abruptly and painfully as it had occurred. A terrible abortion, it was over almost at the precise minute it had started. His wilting champion failing to realize that pleasure was a game of duration, one that was meant for two. Her chocolate eyes stared in disbelief for only a moment, before her shellacked lip curled into a vicious grin. Her laughter was much more of a cackle, a grating staccato beat. She was a whore, a prostitute who – feeling pity for him – willingly went “off the clock” to enjoy a bit of lust and satisfaction, and he had left her hungry for more. So much more. As a result, she fed her hunger through hatred, belittling and berating him up till the point where he could finally get his pants secured and his ass out the door. He had failed miserably, and she’d be damned if he didn’t hear about from her. Her laughter could be heard all the way down the hall, and echoed in his memory still.

Oddly, his first time was wholly unlike the second-to-first. With his first time he enjoyed himself. Following her lead, he took the time to feel her fleshy mounds. He explored her curves, as he romped through her manicured forest of delight. He became lost in her, lost to time and to place. Taking impromptu turns between top and bottom as they tussled across the floor, he acted very much like a child in a candy store. And in his excitement, he found her ecstasy well before he found his own. He took her in, and drank of her essence. He took her in – in smell, sight and sound – and her deep throaty moans could also still be heard floating down his memories’ abbreviated hall.

Had he the inclination, Clive would have realized the difference between his first and his second-to-first time. Had he thought long and hard about them both – and then connected the dots with what he was going through right now – he would have come to realize that in the second-to-first instance, the girl was alive. In the first, she was not.

There must have been something about the cheeseburger, now being held limply in his hands, that brought this revery to bloom. A revery that was broken by Douglas’ concerned voice “Clive, the burger won’t jump into your mouth man, you’ve got to grab it, control it, slam it down yourself.” “But I’m not terribly hungry Douglas” replied Clive. “Oh hell, Clive, the burger’s a metaphor. I’m talking about Life m’man, LIFE! You’re sitting here, eyes glazed over, thinking about some such or the other, instead of living in the ‘now.’ Take control Clive, take control.” Clive said nothing for a spell, but only because he didn’t want Douglas to realize that he had understood the metaphor, and he was responding in kind. Clive wasn’t hungry. Not for life. Not anymore. Not since “they” started visiting him. “They,” hmph, what a stupid name to give them. “They”, “Them.” Why couldn’t he just say it? Why couldn’t he just admit that ghosts visited him? Plagued him. What was he afraid of? After all, it wasn’t like it could get much worse, was it?

“Clive, I’m losing you again. Talk to me” plied Douglas. “I can’t Douglas, I can’t. I really wish I could, but I’ve got a head full of trash right now – some really messed up stuff – and I’m scared shitless. I’m really not sure what’s real… and, and what’s not. I guess I just wish I could see how it feels, you know, with my feet on the ground.” “Clive, you’re crushing your burger” soothed Douglas. “Please, put it out of it’s misery already, and do a little of the same for yourself. Look at me, Clive. I ain’t gonna laugh or judge. I’m your friend. Now, give it over. What’s eatin’ at your brain m’man?” “Douglas?” “I’m here Clive.” “Why ARE you my friend? What’s in it for you? You’ve got your head screwed on tight. You could be with someone much healthier right now. Someone fun. Someone alive. Why do you waste your time with me?”

Drained, Clive buried his head in his crooked arms, looking up beseechingly as Douglas responded. “Clive, I believe in destiny my friend. You and I, we met on purpose. Someone made sure of that. I believe that – while we’re not angels – we can act a hell of a lot like them to other people in our lives. I believe that Clive, honest and true.” Tears bubbled up quickly, keeping pace with the unexpected anger building up within him, burning as they drew down Clive’s face. Shaking, he yelped “Are you trying to tell me that you’re an angel Douglas? A Goddamned angel? I mean, I really do appreciate everything you do, but honestly? That’s what you think? You’re my freakin’ guardian angel or something?” Douglas burst out in laughter in spite of himself, shaking his head slowly while he exclaimed “hell NO, Clive!  I am no angel! Ain’t no chance, ain’t no way! What I’m saying my friend, is that I think that you’re my guardian angel.”

Clive sat there, jaw agape and dumbfounded. As he did, one of “them” appeared effortlessly out of the thin blue air, standing silently behind Douglas. To Clive’s mind it made perfect sense. After all, it wasn’t like it could get much worse, was it?

© t – 2o12

Because everything has to start somewhere…

Hunched over his crumpled self esteem – an esteem that, had it been a live birth, wouldn’t have made it much past term – he found the deepest, darkest, smallest corner of the room, and curled himself up in it. Wearing a look of woebegone usually reserved for only the damned and the dead men walking, he muttered under his breath while hoping that the darkness of the corner, the smallness of it all, would simply squash him into oblivion. Had you the same proximity as the hatred he so carefully nestled, you might even hear his moaning, “you stupid mother fucker! You piece of shit! You animal – you’re a waste of human flesh, you dumb ass moron ugly trash idiot! I hate you, you’re fucking pointless, pointless, POINTLESS!”

He spent far too many days beating himself up like this. The words, having initially come from without, were now originating from deep within. The opinion that had been that of another’s had now become his own. The hate, the pain, the abuse, now it was all his, and he nurtured and cared for it much more than he did himself. He hated that damned corner, and the monster that forced him into it – but he almost loved it as well, needing it to survive. In short and to be brutally honest, Clive was an unholy and miraculous mess. A playground in the making for the spirits to come.

His friend Douglas, however, faired a bit better. He did so for several reasons, the most important of which being that his parents hadn’t been quite so successful at destroying him early on. That’s not to say that they didn’t try, but Douglas (he insisted upon the use of his full name – “Doug” garnered you a punch in mouth) had an almost inbred tenacity, a certain strength that seemed almost spiritually imbued. And maybe it was. Hell, stranger things have happened. It was with this strength that Douglas knocked briefly upon Clive’s door; not waiting for a response before opening it effortlessly, allowing the light to burst into the heavily curtained tomb. A light that almost recoiled when it finally reached the deepest, darkest, smallest corner of it, to find Clive there waiting.

He was broken from his task of diligent self destruction not by the encroaching light, but rather by Douglas’ booming, yet gentle voice “Clive, come on man. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You’re better than this. Friend, your old man is long dead, would ya please let his words die too? Finally?” “I know Douglas, I know” Clive responded meekly – doubly so when compared to Douglas’ robust tone – “But sometimes the attacks just come. Sometimes it’s like my brain is swelling inside… Itching, and trying to bust out all over the damned floor. Sometimes I just can’t help it. Sometimes I… Oh, I don’t know, it just feels like sometimes I want to kill myself. I really wish I could. And then I get all pissed because I’m too weak to do even that. I’m just too weak… too damned weak.” “Clive, you scare me man. Honest to Christ in heaven, you really do” responded Douglas, shaking his head demonstratively as he reached out to offer a hand up to his friend “C’mon, let’s get out of this damned “doom n’ gloom’ room of yours, and go grab a bite to eat. It’ll do you some good.”

There were two things to keep in mind about Douglas. First, he always started a statement by addressing the person he was speaking too. Some said it was respectful, others thought it cute, but most everyone who had to endure a long conversation with him just ended up thinking it was damned irritating. The second thing was that for Douglas, food cured all. Whether it be your heart, body or soul that was hurting, a warm burger and fries would make it all better. Faster still if cheese was involved. This second inclination of Douglas’ irritated Clive. He was not nearly as hungry as Douglas always seemed to be, and he had never allowed himself the pleasure of actually feeling warm cheese simply slither joyfully down his throat. Much like most other things in his life, hunger was only a burden, eating, simply a task. Something to be done just to get on with his life – a life that he didn’t want to live. A life he was too scared to end. Interestingly, towards Douglas’ first tendency, Clive liked it very much. The constant repetition of his name being called out was comforting. Like a repeated pat on the head, or a caress to an ego wafer thin, it made him feel like at least someone – anyone – knew he was alive. Knew he existed. And maybe that was exactly why Douglas did it. Or maybe not. Who knew? One thing was certain, there was no time to question the oversized overly-intelligent loaf about that now, as Douglas was hungry, and there were cheeseburgers waiting.

© t – 2o12

•••

Well, here it is and here it begins. Please be so kind as to leave any constructive criticism and/or comments below…

Briefly…

Listen, I’m just not a big fan of The Stones, OK?

Don’t judge…

Anywho, here’s this week’s 100 Word Song.

And since this “thing” seems to be trundling along rather nicely now, I’ve also set up a new page where you can grab a screen shot of them all together, and in order, right here (or simply click on the “100 Words” tab above – either option works quite nicely).

Play me outta here boys…

Silence

Bless the day when this is no longer required.

Click to find out more and to do your part.

Hey you Jesus people, it’s time to start practicing what the Man actually preached.

Hey you “H8ters,” it’s time to start looking inward instead of out, and dealing with the real problem at hand.

Hey you bullies, it’s time to realize that it takes a Real Man to not beat the crap out of anything he’s frightened by or doesn’t understand.

It takes a Real Man to love.

Hey you scared parents, it’s time to start loving your children for who they are, instead of for what.

Hey you G.S.A. students, God bless you. God bless every last one of you.

Hey you sitting there, adding nothing to the problem – but nothing to the solution either – it’s time to take a stand.

And it’s time today.

Of Lillies & Remains

When the message first came over, I assumed that he was going to ask for a copy of “Sap…” in addition to the “Old Punk” I had already dropboxed him. Honestly, even after all my whining and pining, it never once occurred to me that Lance was actually reaching out in order to have me select this weeks 100 Word Song (!!!!!!!)

I hope that you will once again consider my invitation to jump in with the 100 Word fun – if nothing else, it will someday provide you with the same opportunity to post your favorite Bauhaus song…

=)

A continuation from the past two weeks, here’s my 100. Enjoy!

•••

A flicker of an eyelid was how long ago it happened, and how long it took.

I opened my eyes slowly, to make sure that they wouldn’t fall out when I did. Fearful of making movements too quickly, I next drew my tongue across my teeth. Odd, they felt cleaner than they should have. Funny how your mind distracts you with idiocy right when your world is exploding in your face.

Peripherally I glanced over at her, to see thick red life oozing from her mouth. The air smelled a hint of lilies. I whispered “Kathy…?” There was no answer.

•••

The Uninspired Chronicles, Part 2: Uninspireder

No, Mr. Darin won’t be joining us today.

But I wouldn’t feel too terribly upset about that if I were you. After all, we all have a little Darin in us. Yes indeed we do. Look way down deep within yourself, and you’re sure to find at least a bit of the finger-popping, hip swaying “cock-of-the-walk” element that he embodied so well. We all have a touch of his brash confidence, his sense of urgency, and his desire to try as many flavors as possible, before checking out and meeting the Big Daddy who made them all for us to taste. Even if we bold-face lie and deny this fact about ourselves to ourselves, it’s still deep down in there, and it’s still 100% true.

None of that has anything whatsoever to do with any of this though, so I suppose I should stop dicking around and get to the task at hand, which is this. My friend Ria dropped us another line about The Uninspired Chronicles, AND she’s giving away cool stuff to some of the people who are willing to conspire with her (give the link a click and see if you care to play along!). Now, I’m pretty sure I would do just about anything for her regardless (within legal limitations, of course), but the lure of receiving free booty in exchange doesn’t hurt either. So much so, that I’m actually dedicating a second post in the hopes that I can win me something – errr – help out a dear bloggin’ bud with her latest endeavor.

OK, so here’s part 2 of what I usually do (besides talking to dead people) to get out of my creative funks:

I listen to music.

Well OK, I do do that all the time, but when I’m trying to break my funk, there’s an extra component involved. You see, in my normal course of creation, I will write a post. I will then edit the post (yes, these things are actually edited). I then read it aloud (yes again, each and every post is actually read aloud – several times in fact – before I hit the “publish” button). I then rub my hands briskly together and tell myself what a wonderful and witty writer I am. And then, I find *just* the right tune to end it all with.

When I’m in a creative funk however, I turn the process somewhat around. When I’m in a creative funk, I find the song first and then try to write the post around it instead. And the hard rule is, it has to be a song that would normally never even be a contestant to end any of my normal posts with. “Happy Hour?” Yep, that was one. Imagine how boring that post would’ve been had I just droned on about being a mopey, pissy youth who didn’t look terribly attractive in camouflage? “Mr. Balloon Man“? Right again! I desired to share that jaunty lil tune for so long that I actually faked a business trip to Las Vegas just to be able to finally post it.

OK, well maybe “fake” is a bit strong, seeing as I actually did go on the trip, but that’s not the point. The point is that I was finally able to use a song I think is simply spanking AND I was able to bust a bit of a creative funk at the same time. Pretty cool, right?

And this post will be no different. For this post, I’ll include a song that I will NEVER be able to squeak in anywhere else (unless of course, I already have at one point in time…) Don’t believe me? Give it a listen and you tell me what I could ever possibly write about that would make this ditty the best choice to end a post with. I mean, even IF this is one my children’s favorites to sing along with (well, the two out of the three that acknowledge that music exists at any rate), and even IF it is in pretty much constant rotation for each and every SKAturday we celebrate. Even with all that, I simply can’t imagine that I could ever find a topic suitable to my normal rants, for which I would be able to make its use.

And there are so many other juicy choices as well. So many other beautiful pieces of work that deserve to be heard, but in the normal course of things never would be from my blog-house, had I no funk that was in need of breaking. Now don’t get me wrong, I am by no means endorsing creative funks as a viable alternative to simply being a wonderful and witty writer, but they do provide me with the chance to share some of the more obscure musical tidbits I’ve enjoyed picking up along the way, and to that end, I’m glad that they sometimes occur.

As I mentioned before, Mr. Darin will not be joining us, so don’t look for a song by him just below. And the song chosen doesn’t have anything to do with him either. Well, at least I hope not. But it is a romping good time, and thanks to Ria, I finally have an excuse to share it. And that makes me smiley…

•••

PS: to all of you who read – and believed – my previous post about actually starting to write stories, I haven’t forgotten. But this weekend, in addition to writing scholarship applications, I had to concentrate instead on updating the greatest piece of fiction I have ever created – my resume.

PPS: I simply loathe having to use “PS’s.”

“I don’t go to mythical places with strange men.”

Or better yet, “nobody got murdered before lunch. But nobody. People weren’t up to it. You needed a good lunch to get both the blood-sugar and blood-lust levels up.”

Or maybe even a bit of “it can hardly be a coincidence that no language on earth has ever produced the expression, ‘As pretty as an airport’.”

Listen, what all this nonsense is leading up to is merely that I’m taking the day off. Not because k~ told me too, but rather because I didn’t take the day off a week or two ago, when I drummed up my next review for 1,001 Books To Read Before You Die. Give us a click, and read on!

Yes, it’s another book from Douglas Adams. AND, there’s even one more review of his stuff to come after this.

What? I told you I had a man-crush on him, after all…