26 January 2006

While We Have Little In Common...

Dear Sir,

While we have little in common I must salute you for your bravery. Only a complete idiot, or a rather brave fool would dare to insult me in the ways you have. Nevertheless, I salute you. You have made a mockery and a mimicry of me constantly for many years now, yet I have refused to raise a hand or utter a curse.

All this will change soon. I will no longer tolerate your behavior. Nor will I sit idly by and watch you pantomime my suffering. Your days are numbered. Consider yourself met and well received. The game is on and I will track you down and send you on into the clearing.

And yet you ask, "What have I ever done to offend you, sir?" I will tell you, your list of infamies is long.

You have repeatedly mocked my existence, denied my intelligence, squandered my goodwill, made a fool of me in the dribble you call "writing." You have offered burnt toast to me, though you knew me to be thirsty, given me spoiled milk to ease my stomach ache, pissed in my shoes, rolled and smoked my goddamn pot, layed siege to my sand castles and imitated Godzilla in destroying them, which I might add has also landed you on the big green's shit list. Be warned, he has horrible whisky breath.

You have drank from my well without asking, smoked my cigarettes, eaten my food, slept in my bed, stolen every girl I have ever loved, spent all my money, dogeared my books, and walked off without so much as a "thank you" or "sorry about that, old chap."

Nothing, nothing you do or say will cause me to relent in my quest for vengeance. You are met, sir. You are met. Would that I were not you when next we meet in the mirror.



23 January 2006

Half Moon Bay

They'd driven down through the winding hills, zipping along the road's trajectory past La Honda and hidden houses. The sun lit up the trees with fading, golden embers, while the ground swelled in anticipation of the coming dark. They still had hours and minutes and days together, though they knew it would end quickly, and sooner than either expected. Their words were hushed and rushed in fear of silent moments when one or the other's thoughts would turn again to the impending end of their shared journeys. They never meant to hurt each other, though each had in their own, careless way. They made an odd couple, dysfunctional and difficult, yet both had made many conciliations and retreats in order to arrive at this moment.

He loved her, though he felt trapped at times, unable to concentrate long enough on what else he loved. Words would always be his other mistress, and he would never leave her. At times, mostly drunken these days, he felt her warmth and sensed her willingness to give herself to him. But he could not, or would not pull himself away from his other love, the girl who now drove them on into the foothills and finally the wind-swept shores. He looked at her from the corner of his eye and saw again the beautiful, troubled girl who now owned his heart, at least a piece of it.

She really was beautiful, not only in physical terms. She had a light within her that shined out through her eyes and in her smile every time he looked at her. He saw it in the dead of night as they lay together in their bed, while she fluttered about on her broken wings tasting every color of life. She frightened him in her startling beauty, blinding him to all her faults. He could only wonder what light, if any, she saw in him to forgive him his drinking and his silences. What could she possibly love about him?

And like others, he could not see the light he radiated just as surely as she could not see the light she cast. Together, blinded by each other, they rode on in the moment's feared silence. Just before the silence became an oppression, they came upon the place she had wanted to show him. She parked the car and they walked a ways towards the shore before finding a place to climb down over the rustic fence adorning the edges of the park.

As they descended the sloping dunes, he looked back at the moon glistening through the clouds and thought thoughts of passed lives and lost chances. He did not want to repeat himself, but felt the inevitability of fate crashing down upon him as surely as he heard the waves crashing on the surf some hundred yards away. The silver light of the moon cast the world in somber expressions, lacing the edges of reality with magic. They walked along towards the distant lights across the bay holding hands.

After a while they stopped along a steep, sloping dune and lay down together. For a while they simply lay there listening to the wind and the waves. The wind pushed them closer together and sighed as it so often does when two lovers become one. They made love there on the beach while the ocean sang her song and the clouds danced in front of the moon. Sand trickled between their toes as she gently rocked back and forth against him, bringing herself and him to orgasm.

She shuddered and fell breathing hard against him as he stared up at the stars twinkling through the vast darkness. How like stars people are, he thought to himself feeling her warmth still embracing him. How like stars, he thought, burning in the darkness as if trying to attract each other with a flash and a twinkle, a smile and a laugh.

They lay there feeling each other close, knowing the hours and the minutes and the days were counting down against them. They knew this would be one of the last times they would have to bask in each other's naked glory, assuage the aching emptinesses inside of the other and take comfort, for once, in the silence presiding over them.

RRR 2:04 AM

The wily words of Wilbur the wasted wambat.

The years, the days, the hours,
the minutes, the seconds, the milliseconds,
the...the...all the wasted moments
of life spent dreaming someone
else's dreams-

only to wake up and find there are no hearthfires
burning, no soft sounds
of breakfast cooking.

Waking up to find loneliness greeting you,
wanting a minute, or an hour
of your time.

Were it we could find solace
after the flood,
but Noah cooked the pigeon
and Moses drank the wine.


Moses is a historical fiction written by Alexander Graham Bell upon his coronation to the throne of Mediacrity. No, no my boy, we didn't spell that one wrong, we only just now created the word. But as we were saying, the need arises when the time of day must be dispelled. Call a priest; I think I have a second trapped in the bathroom and she's hungry.

Back to Moses. Now, I suppose some of you will find it offensive if I tell lies about the great Moses, but I will. I am. Moses was born in the third year of the first period of the last age of Men-before-the-modern-era (they didn't have internet) and lived to be 991 years of age. At that time, he could still circumcise a small male child and bless the honey wine at the same time.

The only reason he gave up the ghost was an increasing sense of ennui waiting for the chosen One to appear and take over for him. Little did he know as he was descending the seven deadly ladders of utter death, his replacement was coming along quite nicely. Alas, there are no happy endings in the Old Testament. This one ends the same way: hellfire and damnation, the end of the world, flooding, booze, etc.

But back to the replacement. He was coming along nicely, but was still something of a vague notion in the author's (not god's mind you) head that he had not quite materialized on the page yet. Be patient, dear reader. The end is nigh. With the end so far away and the beginning so near, let us give thanks to all new beginnings and a jolly cheer to all endings. The end.


Wait a minute! Is that it? Is that the end of the fucking story?! Tell me about the fucking golf shoes!!!