Thursday, November 29, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
Sunday, November 25, 2007
eff me pumps
i made this tonight because i had the song stuck in my head and generally photoshopping lyrics is the cure.
Momentary Eternity (draft)
Time doesn’t exist.
For a split-second, an eternity, we are here. And I know that somehow, oddly, we have always been here, really, and we always will be.
But then life is racing again, and I don’t know how, or why, or when we were ever there. I’m caught up in the madness. The world is ever lasting, and it is finite. And I’ve lost touch of you, and I’ve lost touch of earth, of memory.
Who am I?
Where am I?
Why am I?
Then you’re back and I’m beside you again. Life is momentarily suspended. I am in Limbo, meaninglessly living with all the import of the world. I don’t know how long we’ve been here, nor for how long we will be. But it doesn’t matter, because I’m with you. None of it matters.
Then you are gone again and I don’t remember you leaving. I search all existence for the memory. I need to know why you’ve left, where you are. I discover nothing. Life is empty. Life is vast, it stretches out in front of me, it engulfs me. It is suffocating. I am lost. I am lost, trapped in a momentary eternity.
For a split-second, an eternity, we are here. And I know that somehow, oddly, we have always been here, really, and we always will be.
But then life is racing again, and I don’t know how, or why, or when we were ever there. I’m caught up in the madness. The world is ever lasting, and it is finite. And I’ve lost touch of you, and I’ve lost touch of earth, of memory.
Who am I?
Where am I?
Why am I?
Then you’re back and I’m beside you again. Life is momentarily suspended. I am in Limbo, meaninglessly living with all the import of the world. I don’t know how long we’ve been here, nor for how long we will be. But it doesn’t matter, because I’m with you. None of it matters.
Then you are gone again and I don’t remember you leaving. I search all existence for the memory. I need to know why you’ve left, where you are. I discover nothing. Life is empty. Life is vast, it stretches out in front of me, it engulfs me. It is suffocating. I am lost. I am lost, trapped in a momentary eternity.
All That He Knows
They are separated only by feet. His eyes are on her, absorbing her, taking in every detail with bitter-sweet sadness. She is oblivious to him. He enjoys these moments, as he watches her. He suddenly feels as if he is home again, the way he felt when they were together. It was momentary but splendid, like a sudden bolt of lightening, briefly illuminating his surroundings. Now all that remains of that moment of illumination is a shattering sonic sound which rumbles and shakes all as its waves swim by, leaving only disruption and loss in its wake.
She is alerted to his presence by a friend, she cautiously turns her head and for a split second their eyes meet before she sharply darts her head forwards and towards the ground. Grasping her companions’ arms, she ushers them hurriedly away. His eyes do not falter. They are glued to her. On his face is an expression of utter longing. He loves every piece of her, every eyelash, every pore. He loves her hair – each strand of it, and the way it dances across her flawless breasts. He adores her hands. They appear to him as beautiful creatures. He can lose himself in her cuticles, in her perfect fingertips.
He longs for her now as he always has. Even when she was in his arms, when her body was pressed against his, he needed to be closer to her. He would show up at her door in the middle of the night, desperate for her, and he was glad to watch her sleeping beside him as he traced his fingertips lightly across her back. He was always in contact with her. He always had her touch to comfort him, and now he grasps for her wildly with his eyes. It had ended so unexpectedly, so uncontrollably, and a fire still burns within him. He wants her, he needs her, he depends upon her, and she won’t look at him.
He has given up all hope, and his heart lies deflated and defeated in his hollow chest. He feels a gentle hand take his shoulder. It’s her, standing beside him, smiling up at him in a friendly manner. She is touching him, she is looking at him! In that instant, they understand, and they forgive. By her side, he looks like an entirely different person. His eyes embrace the light and reflect it as it bounces off various surfaces. They talk, and it is as if nothing ever went wrong between them. He is filled with elation and hope again and he believes, as never before, that his life is brilliant. He is captivated by her. Every so often, someone will take him by the arm and lead him away from her, loudly reciting excited salutations. He is deaf to all of them and quickly shakes them off and returns to her side diligently. One pestering girl pulls him eagerly into a dense crowd, where she takes him by the waist and moves her hips back and forth, grinding into him. Not wanting to be rude, he goes along with her, sort of bouncing around reluctantly, upper body turned towards his past lover. He casts a rather helpless, pleading look towards her and sees on her face an expression of confused hurt.
Later, they bid farewell and arrange to see each other soon, and for an instant, before she says goodbye, he feels as though he loves her more than life itself.
Days pass before they see each other again, and when they do, her arrival is unexpected. He finds her in the crowd and makes his way over to her, puts his hand in its place in the small of her back. He laughs with genuine appreciation now that he finds himself with her again. She is the center of his attention. His body is turned towards hers, his arm rests, slightly outstretched, subconsciously reaching for her. She invades his senses; her scent is a distracting undercurrent.
They are upstairs, alone, reminded of the nearby crowd only by the constant thudding, semi-distant sound made by the bass. He embraces her tightly and he tries to put his heart into hers for safe keeping, in case he loses it again. She wears sparkles on her face, and they are transferred to his as he holds her in his arms, and he sees only her, and he hears only her, and he feels only her, and he knows only her.
She is alerted to his presence by a friend, she cautiously turns her head and for a split second their eyes meet before she sharply darts her head forwards and towards the ground. Grasping her companions’ arms, she ushers them hurriedly away. His eyes do not falter. They are glued to her. On his face is an expression of utter longing. He loves every piece of her, every eyelash, every pore. He loves her hair – each strand of it, and the way it dances across her flawless breasts. He adores her hands. They appear to him as beautiful creatures. He can lose himself in her cuticles, in her perfect fingertips.
He longs for her now as he always has. Even when she was in his arms, when her body was pressed against his, he needed to be closer to her. He would show up at her door in the middle of the night, desperate for her, and he was glad to watch her sleeping beside him as he traced his fingertips lightly across her back. He was always in contact with her. He always had her touch to comfort him, and now he grasps for her wildly with his eyes. It had ended so unexpectedly, so uncontrollably, and a fire still burns within him. He wants her, he needs her, he depends upon her, and she won’t look at him.
He has given up all hope, and his heart lies deflated and defeated in his hollow chest. He feels a gentle hand take his shoulder. It’s her, standing beside him, smiling up at him in a friendly manner. She is touching him, she is looking at him! In that instant, they understand, and they forgive. By her side, he looks like an entirely different person. His eyes embrace the light and reflect it as it bounces off various surfaces. They talk, and it is as if nothing ever went wrong between them. He is filled with elation and hope again and he believes, as never before, that his life is brilliant. He is captivated by her. Every so often, someone will take him by the arm and lead him away from her, loudly reciting excited salutations. He is deaf to all of them and quickly shakes them off and returns to her side diligently. One pestering girl pulls him eagerly into a dense crowd, where she takes him by the waist and moves her hips back and forth, grinding into him. Not wanting to be rude, he goes along with her, sort of bouncing around reluctantly, upper body turned towards his past lover. He casts a rather helpless, pleading look towards her and sees on her face an expression of confused hurt.
Later, they bid farewell and arrange to see each other soon, and for an instant, before she says goodbye, he feels as though he loves her more than life itself.
Days pass before they see each other again, and when they do, her arrival is unexpected. He finds her in the crowd and makes his way over to her, puts his hand in its place in the small of her back. He laughs with genuine appreciation now that he finds himself with her again. She is the center of his attention. His body is turned towards hers, his arm rests, slightly outstretched, subconsciously reaching for her. She invades his senses; her scent is a distracting undercurrent.
They are upstairs, alone, reminded of the nearby crowd only by the constant thudding, semi-distant sound made by the bass. He embraces her tightly and he tries to put his heart into hers for safe keeping, in case he loses it again. She wears sparkles on her face, and they are transferred to his as he holds her in his arms, and he sees only her, and he hears only her, and he feels only her, and he knows only her.
Son
I am content. The feeling of elation remains in the aftermath of the previous evening’s events. I slept in this morning; it is mid-day, and I get on the bus. I take my seat in a vacant four-seater; a prime location. I make myself comfortable. It isn’t hard in the pleasantly cool weather and mid-day lazy atmosphere.
A man steps onto the bus. He is tall, handsome. He looks gentle. He pays his due, turns around, and takes hold of a stroller, pulls it aboard. He continues down the aisle with it. The mother is next, followed by a teenager, her daughter. They take their seats. The child is gorgeous; a tiny boy. He is happy, always smiling. The father, he is entirely involved with his son. He places his hand on his son’s head, and it remains there, until the mother reveals a camera. He reaches over and takes it from her, turns it on, and hands it back to her. Dad is talking to the baby. Mom snaps a shot. She laughs. The camera travels to her husband. He enjoys the moment with genuine appreciation. The boy is laughing as well. He didn’t see the picture, but he recognizes the shared joy. Mom continues to capture the splendor of her family. She doesn’t over do it; a few more shots is all it takes. Once she’s finished, she retires to a women’s magazine, but continues to watch her family over the top of its pages. Dad is playing with his boy. Remaining hidden, he grabs his son’s hand and briefly pulls, before releasing it. The baby thrusts his tiny arm towards the monster again and again. The monster strikes! A brief moment of panic, before laughter erupts. His laugh is brilliant! It is spontaneous and mighty. I can feel it. I can feel it inside of me. It is a warm feeling, like the sensation of sun on bare skin on a clear summer afternoon. It is everywhere. Soon, it reaches the surface, and I begin to laugh. The game continues. The boy laughs on. He is small, he is simple. He is unaware of me. He knows only his family. He knows only happiness. And in this moment, so do I.
A man steps onto the bus. He is tall, handsome. He looks gentle. He pays his due, turns around, and takes hold of a stroller, pulls it aboard. He continues down the aisle with it. The mother is next, followed by a teenager, her daughter. They take their seats. The child is gorgeous; a tiny boy. He is happy, always smiling. The father, he is entirely involved with his son. He places his hand on his son’s head, and it remains there, until the mother reveals a camera. He reaches over and takes it from her, turns it on, and hands it back to her. Dad is talking to the baby. Mom snaps a shot. She laughs. The camera travels to her husband. He enjoys the moment with genuine appreciation. The boy is laughing as well. He didn’t see the picture, but he recognizes the shared joy. Mom continues to capture the splendor of her family. She doesn’t over do it; a few more shots is all it takes. Once she’s finished, she retires to a women’s magazine, but continues to watch her family over the top of its pages. Dad is playing with his boy. Remaining hidden, he grabs his son’s hand and briefly pulls, before releasing it. The baby thrusts his tiny arm towards the monster again and again. The monster strikes! A brief moment of panic, before laughter erupts. His laugh is brilliant! It is spontaneous and mighty. I can feel it. I can feel it inside of me. It is a warm feeling, like the sensation of sun on bare skin on a clear summer afternoon. It is everywhere. Soon, it reaches the surface, and I begin to laugh. The game continues. The boy laughs on. He is small, he is simple. He is unaware of me. He knows only his family. He knows only happiness. And in this moment, so do I.
On My Own Two Feet
I would clamber onto him and cling to a woolly sweater, my arms grasping my father’s over-sized belly as I balanced precariously, my feet resting on top of his own.
Sometimes he would take me reluctantly, but I would plead with him and he would always surrender eventually. He would walk through the halls, seemingly unaware of his newly-formed extension. He felt sturdy and wholly solid between my arms. He felt undefeatable.
On occasion, he would belt out a verse of a preferred opera. Long, somber, off-tone notes would emerge from him, and I felt the sound evolve within him as I pressed my ear against his stomach. He would pat my back gently but firmly to the beat of his tune.
In those moments I felt entirely like his daughter. I loved him. Now, we have both grown up. I have changed, and my father has also. He has lost his epic grandeur that once seemed so singular. He doesn’t sing any longer, he hasn’t for years.
I don’t grasp him now. I don’t hold him silently, I don’t focus my attention on him, I don’t try to imitate him, like I used to. And he doesn’t give me rides on his feet. I am too big for him, or perhaps he has gotten smaller. I must make it on my own.
Sometimes he would take me reluctantly, but I would plead with him and he would always surrender eventually. He would walk through the halls, seemingly unaware of his newly-formed extension. He felt sturdy and wholly solid between my arms. He felt undefeatable.
On occasion, he would belt out a verse of a preferred opera. Long, somber, off-tone notes would emerge from him, and I felt the sound evolve within him as I pressed my ear against his stomach. He would pat my back gently but firmly to the beat of his tune.
In those moments I felt entirely like his daughter. I loved him. Now, we have both grown up. I have changed, and my father has also. He has lost his epic grandeur that once seemed so singular. He doesn’t sing any longer, he hasn’t for years.
I don’t grasp him now. I don’t hold him silently, I don’t focus my attention on him, I don’t try to imitate him, like I used to. And he doesn’t give me rides on his feet. I am too big for him, or perhaps he has gotten smaller. I must make it on my own.
X
He places his palm on her leg, casually, hoping she’ll ignore it, let it rest there. She remains silent, tolerant, passive, though she’s acknowledged it, and he knows she has.
Why does she allow it? They were together, once. Not so long ago, they were together, and happy. At least they pretended they were, and maybe he truly was, although she was not. Now she must see him, she must put up with him. She doesn’t want to, she doesn’t like to, she doesn’t like him, but she must. So she is tolerant, passive, mute. Sometimes she is screaming, she is yelling, she is hurting him, but only in her head. Her objection gets lost in translation, lost somewhere in her body, and never makes it to her mouth.
Perhaps he can, perhaps he is allowed to, perhaps it is his right, since he once touched her this way. Yet they’re not together anymore, and he’s on his way to see the other girl, the new one.
It’s only when they’re alone. With friends, with witnesses, he stays away from her. It happens when they’re alone, that’s when he takes hold of her. Does he own her? It feels as though he may, and so she feels she mustn’t protest; this is his right, she’s in the wrong. He stumbles over, lunges towards her, takes her by the waist; she is held to him now, and there is no escaping it. He presses his head against hers, and pushes further into her back with his fingertips. He whispers to her. Hot air escapes his parted lips and invades her. She cannot speak; she must not. She wishes for him to leave. After some time, he does. He leaves her in solitude and returns to the crowd.
Once there, he doesn’t look at her, except perhaps by accident, or when she says a certain something, or does a certain something. Then, he stares. When he doesn’t have hold of her, she finds her voice, she finds herself again. She talks to someone, a stranger, she laughs. She turns her head, and there he is, across the room, his eyes fixed on her. They pierce her, they take hold. They are oddly cold. She can feel him inside of her, and she loses herself. She looks away, but he is still inside.
His hands are on her, taking over. One lies on her breast, the other on her neck, in her hair, on her face. He kisses her head; an unwanted token. She is pulled into him, but what is she to do?! She cannot think, she cannot stop it. Perhaps it is all a joke. He often jokes, but he is serious now. She can feel it in his breath against her neck, in his body pressed against hers.
He doesn’t look at her when he does it. Or perhaps he does. She doesn’t know, as she does not look at him. She doesn’t want to, for then it would be real, it would be him doing this to her. The person would have a face, and it would be his. She doesn’t want that.
She takes sanctuary on a spare bed one night. In silence, he enters the bedroom. Without a word, he lies down beside her, facing her back. She does not look at her visitor; she knows it’s him. They lie parallel to each other for a few long moments, the sole audible sound that of their un-synchronized breathing. She feels his hand land on her body. It slides under her arm and down her chest until it comes to rest under her breasts. There it stays for a while, before it continues on to where it lies tucked under her body, against the mattress. It pulls. It pulls her into him. She feels in that moment a sort of sadness from him which she can’t quite figure out. She speaks his name in the darkness. He doesn’t respond, save with a kiss. She pulls his arm off her and walks away, leaving him in solitude.
Why does she allow it? They were together, once. Not so long ago, they were together, and happy. At least they pretended they were, and maybe he truly was, although she was not. Now she must see him, she must put up with him. She doesn’t want to, she doesn’t like to, she doesn’t like him, but she must. So she is tolerant, passive, mute. Sometimes she is screaming, she is yelling, she is hurting him, but only in her head. Her objection gets lost in translation, lost somewhere in her body, and never makes it to her mouth.
Perhaps he can, perhaps he is allowed to, perhaps it is his right, since he once touched her this way. Yet they’re not together anymore, and he’s on his way to see the other girl, the new one.
It’s only when they’re alone. With friends, with witnesses, he stays away from her. It happens when they’re alone, that’s when he takes hold of her. Does he own her? It feels as though he may, and so she feels she mustn’t protest; this is his right, she’s in the wrong. He stumbles over, lunges towards her, takes her by the waist; she is held to him now, and there is no escaping it. He presses his head against hers, and pushes further into her back with his fingertips. He whispers to her. Hot air escapes his parted lips and invades her. She cannot speak; she must not. She wishes for him to leave. After some time, he does. He leaves her in solitude and returns to the crowd.
Once there, he doesn’t look at her, except perhaps by accident, or when she says a certain something, or does a certain something. Then, he stares. When he doesn’t have hold of her, she finds her voice, she finds herself again. She talks to someone, a stranger, she laughs. She turns her head, and there he is, across the room, his eyes fixed on her. They pierce her, they take hold. They are oddly cold. She can feel him inside of her, and she loses herself. She looks away, but he is still inside.
His hands are on her, taking over. One lies on her breast, the other on her neck, in her hair, on her face. He kisses her head; an unwanted token. She is pulled into him, but what is she to do?! She cannot think, she cannot stop it. Perhaps it is all a joke. He often jokes, but he is serious now. She can feel it in his breath against her neck, in his body pressed against hers.
He doesn’t look at her when he does it. Or perhaps he does. She doesn’t know, as she does not look at him. She doesn’t want to, for then it would be real, it would be him doing this to her. The person would have a face, and it would be his. She doesn’t want that.
She takes sanctuary on a spare bed one night. In silence, he enters the bedroom. Without a word, he lies down beside her, facing her back. She does not look at her visitor; she knows it’s him. They lie parallel to each other for a few long moments, the sole audible sound that of their un-synchronized breathing. She feels his hand land on her body. It slides under her arm and down her chest until it comes to rest under her breasts. There it stays for a while, before it continues on to where it lies tucked under her body, against the mattress. It pulls. It pulls her into him. She feels in that moment a sort of sadness from him which she can’t quite figure out. She speaks his name in the darkness. He doesn’t respond, save with a kiss. She pulls his arm off her and walks away, leaving him in solitude.
When It's Best
When she’s not there, that’s when it’s best. When she’s not there, and we’re alone and it’s me he looks at.
I take the empty seat beside him. He pats my leg in a friendly way, saying, “Hey, good lookin’.” When we’re alone, I can forget she’s ever there. I can forget the phone calls, he never dials her anyways. When she’s not there, he talks to me, and when I’m not there? He’s kissing her, he’s fucking sleeping with her. He looks at me, he jokes with me. “We’ll go to a concert together soon, ok?!” She won’t be there. He tugs on my belt loop to get my attention. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles. He’s beautiful. The unconventional kind. He’s rather ugly actually, when you look at him in pieces. His crooked teeth, his big nose. He’s beautiful as a whole. He watches me. I know he does, because I watch him. He looks at me when I laugh and as I kiss my friend goodnight. He asks me things. He asks me about who I’m with. Who I’m with, when I’m not with him, and I don’t know why he’s asking, or why he’s watching me. Because he’s with her. And when she’s there, he’s with her. I look at him, and he looks at her. He looks at her as she dances to inaudible music, laughing. I don’t know why he’s with her, really. She’s nice, I guess, just not very interesting. You can’t really have a meaningful conversation with her.
One time, when she was there, it was bad. I was sick, lying down, and she came to check on me. I hated her right then. He came, he held her waist, and he took her away. I was left alone, lying on the couch, and I could hear them. I could hear them… being together. She went home early, that night. He walked her to the bus. When he got back, he checked on me. He talked to me. I slept at his apartment that night. We ordered pizza at three in the morning. He stripped before bed, undressed in front of us until he stood in his boxers, his rejected clothes scattered on the floor beneath him. We went to bed, I in his sister’s room. He was right beside me, through a wall, so close. She wasn’t there, but there was a spot for her, beside him.
I ran into him once in the subway. Early morning; he was on his way home from her place. He changed his direction, he came with me. We went out for coffee that morning. I was late for school, but I didn’t care; I was with him.
I sit with him now, and she’s not here. His arm’s around my waist, my head is on his shoulder. It’s moments like these that I will cherish. They are precious and brief. His phone rings; an awful, shrill sound which shatters the calm brilliance of the moment. I lift my head, he removes his arm and reaches for his phone; it’s her. He winks at me, pats my leg as he stands up, and leaves the room. I’m alone again, and he’s with her.
I take the empty seat beside him. He pats my leg in a friendly way, saying, “Hey, good lookin’.” When we’re alone, I can forget she’s ever there. I can forget the phone calls, he never dials her anyways. When she’s not there, he talks to me, and when I’m not there? He’s kissing her, he’s fucking sleeping with her. He looks at me, he jokes with me. “We’ll go to a concert together soon, ok?!” She won’t be there. He tugs on my belt loop to get my attention. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles. He’s beautiful. The unconventional kind. He’s rather ugly actually, when you look at him in pieces. His crooked teeth, his big nose. He’s beautiful as a whole. He watches me. I know he does, because I watch him. He looks at me when I laugh and as I kiss my friend goodnight. He asks me things. He asks me about who I’m with. Who I’m with, when I’m not with him, and I don’t know why he’s asking, or why he’s watching me. Because he’s with her. And when she’s there, he’s with her. I look at him, and he looks at her. He looks at her as she dances to inaudible music, laughing. I don’t know why he’s with her, really. She’s nice, I guess, just not very interesting. You can’t really have a meaningful conversation with her.
One time, when she was there, it was bad. I was sick, lying down, and she came to check on me. I hated her right then. He came, he held her waist, and he took her away. I was left alone, lying on the couch, and I could hear them. I could hear them… being together. She went home early, that night. He walked her to the bus. When he got back, he checked on me. He talked to me. I slept at his apartment that night. We ordered pizza at three in the morning. He stripped before bed, undressed in front of us until he stood in his boxers, his rejected clothes scattered on the floor beneath him. We went to bed, I in his sister’s room. He was right beside me, through a wall, so close. She wasn’t there, but there was a spot for her, beside him.
I ran into him once in the subway. Early morning; he was on his way home from her place. He changed his direction, he came with me. We went out for coffee that morning. I was late for school, but I didn’t care; I was with him.
I sit with him now, and she’s not here. His arm’s around my waist, my head is on his shoulder. It’s moments like these that I will cherish. They are precious and brief. His phone rings; an awful, shrill sound which shatters the calm brilliance of the moment. I lift my head, he removes his arm and reaches for his phone; it’s her. He winks at me, pats my leg as he stands up, and leaves the room. I’m alone again, and he’s with her.
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