My best friend & I are turning 30 tomorrow.
Nicole: I’m a twenty-something! If you need me, I’ll just be over here livin’ up my twenty-somethingdom. Because I’m in my twenties! wheeeeeeeeee
Rei: You & I are so in our twenties. I’m gonna go rent an apartment for a month and a half and forget to do my taxes. Then I’m gonna climb a building and go dumpster diving and sleep with a nineteen-year-old.
Nicole: I’m gonna drink too much coffee and stay up all night and tweet a bunch.
Rei: I’m gonna write ambiguous status updates that could be about either contemplating suicide or Breaking Bad.
Nicole: I'm gonna pack all my stuff in my escort and drop it off in my dad's basement while I go backpack through Europe and go to ALL THE DISCOTECAS.
Rei: I’m gonna work at an artisan bakery and not worry about my teeth or credit score.
Nicole: I'm gonna wear a candy necklace ironically because, you know, i'm not a teenager.
Rei: I'm gonna be concerned about what teenagers think of me. And then I’m gonna hold a lot of concrete opinions and philosophies about pretty much everything and be a complete stranger to uncertainty.
Nicole: I’m gonna precisely lay out what my life will look like by the time I’m 30 and journal about it. And then I’m gonna get lost in a sketchy area at dark and ask everyone I see for directions.
Rei: I’m going to be extremely concerned about my oral sex technique and then I’m going to do my laundry in the bathtub. I’m going to sleep with a 34-year-old who “doesn’t want to talk.” Then I’m going to get frustrated over other people’s grammatical errors.
Nicole: I’m gonna talk as loud as I want wherever I want. They SHOULD listen. I have important things to say. Then I’m gonna make all my friends watch Food Inc & go vegan & start wearing HATS.
Rei: I’m gonna get married and buy a house and then I’m gonna get a divorce and sell a house.
Nicole: Miss you, birthday buddy
Rei: I’m gonna have the same best friend forever.
Rei: Then I’m gonna blog our conversation about turning thirty.
Someone's been reading my diery
Someone's been reading my mind
Someone's been thinking the things that I thought
Dying the deaths I have died
Someone's been picking my pockets
Someone's been wearing my face
Someone's been holding the hand i have held
Someone's been filling my space
Someone's been doting to tease me
Someone's been crossing my eyes
Someone's been riding the writing I've written
Someone's been drafting my cries
Someone has dug up my secrets
Someone has fingered my guise
Someone has nailed my cacophony shut
Someone stood up to my lies
Someone has poisoned my waitress
Someone has served me up spiked
Someone has mussed up the tables I've bussed
Someone has loath'd what I've like
Someone is choosing my battles
Someone is calling my shots
Someone is halving my holes into sums
Someone is knotting my naughts
Someone is drowning my lifeguard
Someone is biting my bit
Someone is pointing out points I have made
Someone is shooting my shit
Someone is wetting my whistle
Someone is winding my sheets
Someone is standing my hair at the end
Someone is bound to my beat
Someone was shooting my moon down
Someone was setting my sun
Someone was rifling through all my stuff
Someone was jumping my gun
Someone has hung my head heavy
Someone now knows what I've known
Someone has worn out my welcome by now
Someone should keep to one's own
Someone's been seeding the garden
Someone's been guarding my side
Someone's been Someone while I'm someone else
Dying the deaths I have died
A wither'd waste of sullen day
Wave heavy hands who flit away
To drop into the earth
The wing and what it's worth
These fell'd, dead flies abound the floor
Their dead fly meat attracting more
But darker things have died
For things less lack-of-tried
But bit of bone to hang it taut
Went wound the wire fire brought
So sear'd the sudden sun
Did do what we had done
I woke up the other morning after a day. That day, the prior, I had been drunk, quite. I'd gone to two plus I-don't-know-how-many bars and didn't recall how I had arrived back at home, where I awoke. However, it was just before eight o'clock and I was due to work at eleven.
I was working in a deli that was located, conveniently and irritatingly, just below my apartment. I could hear, soon past eight, the bustle of the preparatory workers readying the place. Voices called to each other through the carpet of my bedroom as chairs were shuffled from tables and clattered to the floor. The front patio of the deli called the iron pell of outdoor furniture being unchained and set up, oddly (I vaguely thought in my morning haze), despite the steady drizzle of rain persisting from the previous day.
The previous day had, with its rain, set me in an unfavorable mode. My mood is often bleak, but the damn rain has never proven to aid its bearing at all. Quite the contrary, in fact. I'd had the day off from work and had set out to see a girl I liked, who worked at a bar, the type lee I often choose in dreary (or any) weather. There, I saw the girl and we spoke, which alleviated my doldrums quite. The bartender's hand was heavy, though, and my wallet unusually deep. I'd had too many drinks less one, and left just before I had the chance to make a daylight ass of myself in front of the girl (I could care less about the barstaff. It was three PM).
I walked through a bare mist, a patter of rain, with my umbrella under my arm, to another bar, one at which I could make (and formerly had made) a fool of myself without debilitating regard. It was (and is) a bitter and ugly place with no windows and the same patrons every day, I knew, as I found myself there very nearly every day. I drank until the point at which I remember thinking that I ought to leave, but I do not remember leaving.
I must have left, however, as I woke the next, dark morning, as I've said. I rose from bed to the scraping of the patio furniture below. I went to the kitchen and took a half a sandwich and an open beer from the refrigerator. I ate and drank them, only looking out the window, at the gray sky, a little.
It got darker as the day grew. By quarter-to-nine, the sky was a heavy azure with a tick of black and bore only the light from the streetlamps, reflected by the thick, grim clouds. About this time I began to think, only slightly and in an unthoughtful way, that perhaps today wouldn't occur. The thought grew every couple of a few minutes or so, as I'd glance out a window at the steady dim and I would think something like, maybe that's all there is today. Maybe there'll be no more sun or days from now on. I actually thought that. I actually thought that was what might very, very possibly be going on.
I thought that maybe that was it. Whether the clouds had set up for good, and dark, or the sun had simply shrugged off passing anymore over.*
Three minutes after nine I was convinced. The sun had burnt out and the world just hadn't gotten cold, yet. Or the clouds had knitted into an impenetrable blanket and that was our new, lower sky. It was never, never this dark after nine in August in this part of the world. It was never. Things must have simply changed.
I smiled at this, believe it. I thought that I might have the day off work. No sense in being open for the day if there isn't a day. Maybe no-one would open shop today. I could take a walk on my day off and there would be nothing to do and nowhere to go and no-one to see. I smiled at this.
I was granted a good hour or so of light bliss and quiet before the obvious struck me, as I'm sure it has struck you now, or had at the start. It was the quiet, actually which made me realize, terribly. Of course, though I thought, still oblivious to what had happened, I will go into work, but they will be waiting, of course, to tell me that the deli wouldn't be open for business, of course, in light of the darkness (pardon). It wan't the prospect of skipping work, however, that drew a smile on me. There was something about the receding of days which brightened what had been in me a heavy heart these past few months, years, truly. It may have been the point that I had begun each day with regret & forboding for so long, and that I was glad to see the entire institution of days wither and be retired, rightfully.
A little past ten, though, I suppose I was sobered sufficiently, the deli below so still & hollow, and I realized that, of course, I had not slept away the night, but only the early evening. The deli had been freshly closed, I was alone in my wakefullness, and, terribly, the day I 'd thought evaporated by perpetual night had yet to begin.
And when I realized that the sun had just gone down, and not died, I was sadder for it.
So I put on a shirt and went to the bar.
*I am aware that this is not how the sun works.
He wasn't the biggest nor the strongest horse. But he was, being a horse, strong & big & capable. Or had been. And, though he wasn't the best horse, he was my horse now. And, though I didn't know his name, he was my favorite horse, being mine, but also, generally, being a good horse. And, a horse being such a great big thing, he was thus my favorite thing.
Also, he was in the back of my 1987 Dodge Caravan (which had been stripped of its seats and covered in a hurry with spare floormats from somewhere).
Also, he was lying on his side with his legs bunched up and his hooves knocked up against the big sliding door.
Also, he was dying.
I sped as much as I could though the crowd. They appeared from nowhere, every place to which I turned. I drove alongside their thickness with a ragged, daunted haste like a heavy wind.
Finally, I passed though a pair of gates ajar and the throng of bodies disappeared behind us. There was clear around, but despite this I braked fully and parked the van. I remember now that I must have put the nose of the vehicle north, as I climbed into the back and slid open the side door, spilling in the rusted yellow of the setting sun and spilling out his great, heavy hooves.
He was dead.
I wrangled, somehow, my legs under the animal and laid my hands spread on his still rib cage. I near broke up my spine leaning strain to tunnel my ear with his great dinosaur nostril and heard nothing.
I sat back up, and stayed that way, for a bit. Then I did what I knew I had to do, before the bugs & the flies & the no-see-ums bored in their sick.
It wasn't the biggest knife. Nor the sharpest. I laid it against his side, at the base of his stoic ribs, and I sawed up to his horse's armpit. I stole up again & again, shedding his left side with a quickness that belied that I hadn't any idea what I was doing. Soon, the whole left of his trunk, one leg, and a part of his long face bore naked sinew. I paused in my work and thought bitterfond upon him once more, sorrowed & sorry.
Right then was when he inhaled.
Ragged, then let a cry like a horse making his horse-noise as loud as he can, from a hundred miles away.
The other night, my librarian friend & I were drinking, so we began development of a system of categorization to replace the Dewey Decimal Classification. It is called the Robinson-Malone Obfuscation and it is thus:
[author's middle initial][number of words in title, represented (per angle) by a geometric shape][number of pages reduced, by repeatedly summing individual digits, into a single digit].[birth year of author divided by number of main characters]
[number of letters in title, squared][thickness of first printing of book, in cm, multiplied by 2 and represented via the alphanumeric encoding: a=1, b=2, c=3, etc.(in pictured example, the book was 2.75 cm thick, x2 = 5.5, which becomes the letters e & half of f)].[middle page number (or numbers, if book comprises an even number of pages)].[author's blood type]
SO THERE YOU ARE.
Ad dea aspicio, ultra terminus/
Mille ac mille esurio mea cor, exspecto/
Sum ergo Cupiditas/
Itaque calxa proicio ipsae ex earum locus/
Pro oculus gresso per ager ad eius/
Da mi basia mille, deinde centum/
Dein mille altera dein secunda centum/
Adhuc, non appropinquo laetitia eius/
Cum arcus cycnis, hedera luna alba/
Aut quam sidera multa dies obduco lavo visum/
Praeter parietis, recubo Elysium femina forma/
Cum umerus par casum pluvialis/
Cunabul saeta iacio in nix velius/
Flamen ferito in papilla/
Par equui vado, volito in tumulosa tremulus nimbus/
Dexterae, ita lente/
Et cum tacet nox/
Sino quae mea laus/
Tendo Voluptas ipsa/
Sono unde procul vallum/
~Stay in bed until we’re dead
Beauty knelled, your hands beheld
The error of my sex
Twice I’ve marred my soft eyes hard
Twice I’ve cursed and hexed
Twice I’ve sought for sight you wrought
Your vision now dissects~
~Rifle-rail and hand-to-braile
Dextiread your text
Just to find a plan to blind
Yourself from what comes next
Gooey tales of fingernails
Sockets sip like lidded lip
And lick with cross-eyed vex~
~Understand, I took your hand
Dark in lower decks
Look and feel your stern and keel
Eyes blur and hand corrects
Know the moon as counternoon
Sunlit, it reflects
Cross an I, from sight to sigh
When finger-felt connects~
~Sheathed in-sheet, slow-sucking sweet
Softened sound affects
Sinew cry and glass of eye
Hand-picks and blind-selects
Heaven-sake, why die awake
Wide-eyed, aching wrecks
Best to’ve slept with hard hands kept
A sight below our necks~
~Stay in bed until we’re dead
Beauty knelled, your hands beheld
The error of my sex~
Just to clarify for everyone else, my seamstress was gored by a white Catalina bull earlier this week.
A brigand rode it into my anterior television room, which is the room with the TVs you can watch.
The posterior television room is the one where all the TVs face the walls. It's where I go when I don't want to watch Northern Exposure.
I spend most of my time in the posterior television room, obviously.
Which is why I had to hear of this incident second-hand from the woodcutter who was turned into an armchair by a wizard.
He spends most of his time in the anterior television room so he can spy on the seamstress who has no idea about furnituremorphic creatures.
He watches her while she masturbates in the fireplace, watching Northern Exposure, which is only sort of ironic.
She does it in the fireplace because this one time the armchair gave her a funny feeling.
The sounds my seamstress was making in her oblivious onanistic rapture only served to agitate the damnable bull. Or "damnabull."
So the white Catalina bull charges her, and she doesn't notice, what with the darkness of the chimney and Barry Corbin and all.
And the armchair/woodcutter tilts himself (the armchair version of throwing) into the path of the animal.
The great alabaster beast rips through the chairman, who is still filled with human insides, as is the gross magic of wizards.
The entrails of the living chair spray all over my seamstress just as she climaxes. The word "stuffing" is elegantly dismissed.
So, after the gore, she comes to me, seamstress seems stressed, tells me that she was, "totally gored," and quits on the spot.
So, it's been a pretty rough week for me. I've got no-one to sew up this damn chair and Northern Exposure isn't on in ten minutes, for once.