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 |  a journal in short bursts that might occasionally even rhyme |
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I am not much for journal keeping. So consider this less a recitation of daily life and more of an attempt to capture a mood, or moment, as it strikes my fancy. For the easily offended, I should add the disclaimer that there is a fair amount of profanity, sex and/or politics. The words are stuck, lodged uncomfortably between hands that don't touch and the rush of cold air ghosting between lips that won't kiss A stuttering cough to dislodge them, wet and shiny with the mucous secretion of heartache, and they tumble forth, end over end, before you |
| It has weight: a backpack five pounds beyond carry comfort. A texture too, akin to grainy risotto or broken Béchamel, not inedible but unpleasant all the same. A thing to live with and live through, the third hour of a trans-oceanic journey. There might be an end; there likely is an end – unless – the gods are cruel (and merciful). It is two neighborhoods over from grin-and-bear-it, a close enough subway ride to suicide to make it worth the contemplation but not the bother. What is despair if not dissatisfaction magnified many times over? Happiness a fleeting thing, quite possibly a mirage. Even contentment is but a sister-at-arms, albeit more comfortably dressed. So it must be fine. To be feeling anything is still to be. Is there a use in “getting better” when worse is the mean? Here there is no disappointment; nothing could please. There it sits, old faithful friend, content in its advantages, unfazed as you dabble with other emotions, waiting. |
| it hurts to sit tall, arms and chest thrown back, head held high. the power position. a body secure in its place, speaking confidently, predatory, almost, in its dominion of space. i shuffle past the lands of sweets and meats, rapacious yet afraid, bowed into the shape of a bottomless well of anxiety, hungering for something just thataway, a bit further over there, something maybe even within reach, but for the hunch. the satiation of satisfaction, perhaps, the sense of being enough rather than too much of too little, found through quiet insides and thinning outsides. instead my limbs are comprised of faulty levers, gears worn down to this far and no further. i am comfortable only in crouching, huddled upon myself to protect the vulnerable fleshy bits from the eager gaze of those upright sitters or the sympathy of fellow huddlers. is it possible to dream even when bent thusly? |
She’s commissioning a nude to stave off tomorrow’s old age, vanity perfectly placed – breasts that perked like that deserve immortality. Her husband can’t know. The usual story. I smell her ripeness from twelve feet away. Her clean tangerine scent mixed with something heavier, sweatier; clothes binding, lifting, and sealing her best attributes. We haggle over control before she agrees to my price, asking if I can store it for her, going about this all wrong. Drawing her eye, my body’s definitive attention to her copious charms unmistakable. She leans forward, displaying cleavage begging for paint under other circumstances. I turn her down craving the challenge of making her work on canvas instead. |
| sideways glint of cheek buried under hat hood scarf balaclava a flash of wrist blush of cold where glove and coat disdain to meet coming undone layer by layer cloth unwrapped the shape of you coming through and then boorish disappointment regret that the wonder of wondering of the what is exquisite its counterpoint the feel of the thing stripped of its covering the anodyne real coveted but still less lesser for being exposed |
| Choose one, the beauty instructed. And none is not an option. Cupped in his hands, they were identical. Cold to the touch, the same texture, the same appearance. But not quite. The left. It has more heft. A passing resemblance to a smile peeked out from the grimness. Made her nearly human looking, though not any less beautiful. Good choice, she said approvingly. It’s the one I use. The matter-of-fact pronouncement told him to stuff his pity. An unnecessary warning. He didn't have the room to pity anybody else. It did explain the glowering. Here he’d been thinking she was paid by the frown. Let’s try it for fit. Isn’t that a job for the big boys? The frown multiplied, came back with strangely appealing friends - pursed lips and narrowed eyes. I am the big boys, asshole. Stand up. Figuring he’d earned worse, he shut up. All brisk efficiency before, she now took her pound of flesh in deliberately sloppy handling. The view was enough to ignore the pain for. Pay attention, she scolded. But the scowl did nothing to diminish his pleasure. How could it, with the beauty on her knees before him? He chuckled, pleased with the unexpectedly lecherous thoughts. Walk. Acid coated her command. He tried for innocence, which earned him a sharp pinch on the bicep. We both know my face is up here. First step in and the discomfort was sky-high. All these advances in medical technology and they couldn't stop the chafing? He headed that train off at the pass. Fifty years ago it would've been worse. A hundred and he would've been dead. Thinking like that helped him keep shit in perspective. Besides, while it was more lurch than finesse, it was him walking. No crutches, no rails, nothing but man and machine rubbing along. Takes a while to get used it. Keep telling yourself that it’s you standing on your own two feet. I find it helps. Like breast implants – once you buy them, they’re yours. Still, mighty uncomfortable no matter how you slice it. No doubt in his mind: that was a smile this time. It came right after an offering of understanding. Seemed like the beauty was thawing out some. Remnants of machismo had him trying to strut, a bad idea for a gimp. It promptly turned into a clusterfuck. Limbs, his and hers, went every which way but vertical. Her balance held; his didn't. A brief spurt of embarrassment that went as quickly as it came. There was no sense in being upset about unchangeable things. Walk before you run, dumbass. He closed his eyes to the agony of rearrangement. Even so, he could hear the smile in her voice. A strong girl for all her resemblance to good china, she got him back in the chair with an enviably swift series of movements. Then again, she did this everyday for assholes exactly like him. You did very well until you started showing off. A face-plant after four steps qualifies as very well? Walk before you run. The fit’s not quite right. That last a sop to his pride that worked all the same. Better still when she took the foot off, the extra weight odd after weeks of adjusting to its absence. Just so you know, the beauty come-hithered, dragging me down won’t work. I like being on top. Sputtering in stupefaction, his eyes flew open. The grin told him he’d been had. Didn't change the fact that he was up and running at full mast. We’re done for today. Giving him a hair toss and a wave, the beauty grabbed her files and vavoomed towards the door. See you Tuesday. Don’t miss me too much, soldier. A lot more going on there than he'd thought. It underscored the importance of patience and gathering good intel. The other guys on the floor thought she was a raging harpy. Hell, he’d known her almost six weeks before she first cracked a smile. He had her flirting now. Assuming he could get her to say yes to a date, which while many months down the line wasn't as obviously far-fetched as it seemed two months ago, who knew what then? They'd make pretty babies, at any rate. And wasn't it about time the Army gave him back as much as it took away? |
| A dead soldier is a good man (always men, even the women) bravely fighting on the forward front all fast charges and light brigades dying while defending country hearth and home from real and imagined foes. Sgt. FC age 27 dedicated husband father of two loved basketball and fly fishing Soldiers die (they say) not only for words like patriotism folded into the cotton stars and stripes unions jacks crescents chevrons that protect their coffins but also for each other. Because (though that they don't say) it takes two sides to play. CW3 age 24 single mother devoted granddaughter quick to smile life of the party. Our boys (always boys, the girls too) laid down their lives to keep us safe as if overcome with the intense urge to rest weary heads in shrapnel beds. A dead soldier is a perfect soldier never insubordinate opinionated or derelict one who died, as they all die, in the name of duty, honor with no cause for complaints. A dead soldier sacrifices his life (always his, even hers) for the greater good the middling good or a lesser good that is just good enough for prime-time television. In the end despite what they say our fallen solider is a name and brief snapshot a faded yellow ribbon an obituary in a failing newspaper of a moribund town. Dead soldiers are wars given recursive purpose meaning mounted on the back of immobile limbs making the silent trek home in a hangar of yet more bodies because (they say) we can leave no man (or woman) behind. |
| the stressed unstressed weighted emphasis slippy dipthong triphthong vowels running glottal stop into unlettered consonants acute accent accentuating foreigness stamping out sibilant fricatives contorting tongue and teeth to “thee apple”, “thuh cream” an experiment in transmutation each alchemical translation disguised as success losing heritage by the meter teeter to theater melted queso onto grilled cheese giving gracias pidiendo please until you speak it so well I would never have known |
| Black rolling clouds announcing with thunder the downpour over the horizon with no umbrella to huddle under she hunched into her hoodie her gaze drawn unwilling to the ground beneath her feet water clung to grass shinmmering a lurid luscious green soaked beyond bearing from last night In faraway counties and faraway countries there was drought corn and wheat withered in fields across the heartland cows toppled from thirst oxen and orphans black-eyed and bleak with death milk four bucks a gallon fresh bread twice that again this storm the answer to somewhere else’s prayers Silver into grey into something black rain battered the sidewalk overflowed the gutters jealous of her sisters the storm had turned into a river a mini mighty Mississippi spilling its banks into her sneakers squealing and squelching they proved no bulwark against the flood |
| We were swamped in silence. Green like grass. Or maybe blue like sky. Little dangers lurked in the forgetting. Words left our heads without being spoken. It was small and old, like ourselves. That much we knew for certain. Two steps to the right, an urgent, angry pause – how could we find one car in a sea of metal? |
Novelty handcuffs are a naughty little dare, a tiny soupçon of spice. You giggle nervously at the tasteful women-friendly sex-shop. It’s a hen-party. Therefore there must be sex toys. Life running its predictable course. You are not into this sort of thing. Of course not. There’s the mildly titillating, and then there’s whatever the hell that leather contraption is. As a bridesmaid, you are here for the ride. That doesn’t stop you from buying the handcuffs. One never knows, right? Not the dildos though. One thing to buy handcuffs – that means you might have a boyfriend (or a girlfriend, you don’t want to be narrow-minded in your thinking). The other implies you’re sitting alone at home masturbating furiously to art house indie movies. Like some kind of sex-crazed, manless (personless?) freak. Which you are pretty sure you might be. There’s no reason to announce it, however. The wedding went off with only minor hitches. That’s where you first see him. A supreme rom-com meet-cute scenario, what with him being a groomsman. You start to think this one is a keeper. Six months in, I-love-you’s are exchanged. At this point, you’ve done all the requisite progressive hip young city couple things and then some. You’ve watched porn together, gone to a swingers party (even if everyone there was middle-aged and you guys went home alone), discussed boundaries and jealousy triggers to death (he doesn’t have any, you have hang-ups). The sex is fulfilling if not exciting. Shyly, because aren’t you always shy about these things, you bring out the handcuffs on a night when you are two sheets past any sort of wind. You mention a movie you saw last week where the man ties the girl up. Inside, your heart pounds. He might think you’re a freak and then where would you be? Instead he’s enthusiastic. He wants to blindfold you, which is one step further than you wanted to go. You figure what the hell, liquid courage and all that. Between the two of you, three bottles of champagne have met their end. By the bottom of the fourth, blindfolding sounds kind of hot, actually. The safeword is magic. Although you will never tell him – what good would it do eight months into the relationship to bring it up – that night is your first partnered orgasm. First three, if you’re being precise. Not that the sex wasn’t good before then. It was, even without a climax. Besides, that’s what masturbation is for. With the blindfold and the cuffs, however, there is just enough guilt and shamefulness to get you off. Residual Catholic guilt. It could have been embarrassing, afterwards. Except he came as many if not more times than you did. It was the blindfold, he explains. Apparently he has a bent for them. Who knew? You start to wonder how far down this rabbit hole goes. The next time you are not quite as drunk. Enough to pretend, as all good girls do, that you cannot possibly be held responsible for all the nasty business going on here. He obliges you kindly. Neither one of you is quite ready to jump out of the closet. Perhaps the secrecy is part of the kink. Tomorrow being Sunday, you can confess it. Not with details. Father Morgan probably doesn’t want to hear that the headboard was not as sturdy as it seemed. After a particularly animated weekend you realize your wrists are red and inflamed. It looks like what it is, allergies and rope burn. There’s probably wool in the fuzz of the handcuffs. Being a modest sort, you wear long sleeves and that ugly heirloom bracelet you inherited from your grandmother until the swelling goes down. Embarrassing but emboldening. You are an adult, after all, free to do as you please. On your one year anniversary he tells you that he’s done some research. About ropes. Thankfully your shirt is dark or that wine you sprayed everywhere would be visible. How could he be talking about this in public? Parts of you sit up and take notice, modesty be damned. Whispering – and how foolish that, in a trendy crowd like this, no one is paying you any mind, not even the wait staff – he explains that a friend of a friend has a gathering of likeminded folk every couple of months. There’s even a word for it – a munch. There’s a man there who’s a bondage expert. He has an invite for the next one. Would you like to go? And that is the question, isn’t it? You find yourself averting your eyes more than once. Some of this stuff is so outlandish you want to laugh. Other parts are frightening. Who would want to be caned on purpose? The ghosts of your ancestors shiver to think it. But you are respectful. You realize your friends would be aghast at the things the two of you get up to. If it’s consensual, who are you to judge? Easy enough to say, but there are perfect strangers running around in dog-collars, half-naked, mostly naked, naked naked and perfectly clothed. This is what a fetish community looks like. You’re not one of them, however, merely a polite observer. Liking to be tied down and blindfolded is a long way from this. Conveniently, you ignore that most everyone in this room felt that way once. In your second-best party dress, that is a fiction you struggle to maintain. That is until your eyes land on a short overweight redhead, trussed up in beautiful, intricate knots. Exactly like when you found your apartment, it is lust at first sight. For the bondage, not the girl. It turns out she’s a human advertisement. What a display too. Not only is this the work of the man you guys are here to meet, he and his model are more than happy to chat with you. By the end of the night, you have names, numbers and the rudimentary basics. They school you: him on some simple knots, some good books and websites, her on what is safe safe, dangerous safe, and just dangerous. There is a lot to think about. By mutual accord, you take a break from kink. Before it was play. You need to decide how much further you want this to go. Weeks pass by in haze. The waiting becomes unbearable. You’ve even started reading bodice-rippers as a way to get your fix. For his birthday you book a six-day trip to Napa Valley. Rather than check a bag, you ship hundreds of dollars’ worth of good quality rope, handmade silk blindfolds, and the new and improved version of the handcuffs to the bed-and-breakfast. You gear yourself up for rejection. He may have decided he likes vanilla sex well enough. As for you, you miss the closeness bondage brought to your relationship. It might even be a deal-breaker. For a change you insisted on blindfolding him. There was no other way to change without him seeing you. Thankfully the lingerie you ordered fits perfectly. You were worried; online purchases can be so dicey. All your toys are laid out on the bed. You are wrapped up in little bits of satin. And a bow, of course. Cheesy, but it is his birthday. When you take the blindfold off him, he gasps in delight. He had been working his way toward asking you to re-up for kink. He worried about your reaction. The innkeeper, nosy but helpful, mentions a place called The Armory in San Francisco. You take your second to last day off from wine-tasting and go into the city. You have to admit it was a spot-on recommendation. It does make you wonder what she saw in you two that made her suggest it. He proposes that night over a bold cabernet and spicy prawns. You say yes only after he has paddled your ass sore. Not that there was any doubt as to your answer. On the plane ride home, you find yourself pondering the finer points of suspension and the glitter of your engagement ring. He asks you how you feel about bringing in other people. It makes you laugh to think how horrified you were at your first swingers party. Bring them on, you say, but after the honeymoon. Neither one of you wants a big wedding. Less than a week after your vacation, you are officially Mr. and Mrs. You figure in the next year or so you’ll have a big reception for your friends and family. In the meantime, there are logistical issues. He wants to stay in his apartment, which is bigger. You want to stay in yours, which has wood-floors, high-ceilings and the beautiful bones of a pre-war. Plus, it’s cheaper. It is your first big fight. The makeup sex is spectacular. You compromise, and go apartment hunting. With two paychecks, you ought to be able to find something really nice. And in a new place, it might be possible, with tweaking, to recreate some of the sets you saw at The Armory at home. |
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