Eve of the 4th. Winter.

Sophie--

I don't want to say that I miss you more than rain.  I consider it an accomplishment to have maintained restraint long enough to have inserted words before that phrase.

I feel I am mad.  Smoke is constantly whistling in my face like some sort of vicious eel made of transitive carbon.  I think of you often.  I am, after all, living above a bar.  I am surrounded by the filth that quickens my pulse because it is the shadows of you.

Do you remember Patrick?  He's gotten so still, Sophie my cherish.  I think one of these days he will fall from the perch is so stubborn with, and I'll have to ring for some hazardous materials officer.

Despite the racket from beneath my floorboards that shudders out the sky, I feel alone most hours of the day.  I go out, I drink awful stuff.  I wanted to try to indulge as you did but the nosebleeds have ruined enough of my linens.  I have failed to have inherited my father's sense of clotting.

Sophie... this man... this intellectual senator of Hollywood... I hope he treating you wretched so you'll run away back to me.  I scarcely recognize the walls without you.  Maybe it's me.

Abernathy sends his half-eaten regards.  The story goes he's been poisoning his brain.  So he keeps ringing me on, thinking you've stopped back in.  I don't know what your mother was thinking.  But I suppose without him and the starlit sky, and a dozen whiskey tire-irons you would not have struck into this world.

Christ, woman, come home.  I haven't any money.

Love, Viktor

p.s. It has been six weeks since I've written this and I am now off to the post.  Sorry.  Patrick is dead.

p.s. again, Sorry love, another week since.  Patrick sends his best.

I'm sorry for your loss.

(for A)

The words were so easy to say but the silence that I chose was one of the most difficult things to do.

I didn't like him. And that hardly seemed the point. When you wish someone a happy birthday, it's their birthday and not yours that you wish to be happy. When you tell someone you like their hat, it is their hat that you appreciate. When someone loses a loved one, you goddamn say how sorry you are for their loss. How you feel about them is inconsequential. Someone is in pain. You are watching someone in pain.

If they break their arm, you are sorry that they broke their arm. You may think they are the stupidest person in the world for having climbed that tree, but it remains that the pain they are feeling is theirs.

Unless you aren't sorry.

Perhaps you like that they are in pain. Finally, you think, this should wake them up and make them realize what everyone else was thinking. But they won't. They're in a daze. They may live every day thereafter thinking "Yeah, he was a total fuck," but the moments following a death are not reflective of anything to come. You learned the stages, whether in class or in a film. They're seldom in order, and they aren't yours to arrange.

And who the fuck are you? What do you know? The person gone lived a life you barely saw; the person left behind has every right to continue their love for them, when it was them that saw the other as they truly were.

Say you're sorry.

Say it.

Well, now you've waited. And you seem like a selfish asshole every time you show that you've learned from the mistake of waiting. Every person you now say this to, you think--they think--the press that follows you thinks... "Well, I guess he likes that person more than that other person."

No, no, you write to the editor... I just realized what a fool I was to ignore the pain of someone--I've channeled that into being a better person, really... Please don't think that person 345 is any more deserving than person 204 was.



I'm terrible at this.

And there it is again... I've successfully made it about me.

And I said I didn't like him. I didn't mean that, either.

I did like him. I liked him for you until it looked like he was going to destroy you both. We saw so many people destroyed in our time; why didn't you see it? And he died. And you didn't. And I didn't know how to vocalize "I am so glad you're alive" when someone else had just died. That someone else that I admittedly barely knew and was the world to you; a world to you in a galaxy of crazy shit we had both been through. He was there for you when I wasn't. And when he went away, I still wasn't.

And I hate that every day.

I wish I could say it was a unique situation for me. I don't think I ever properly learned how to deal or grieve. If there is a way. I know I get sad. And if I had the chance, we would've drank some great wine and sobbed and laughed and been witty and provocative with you that night if I could go back.

I'm sorry for your loss.

I do mean it. I remember, days before he died, I think... Jesus, it's been a long enough time ago where a lot of it tends to blur together... that he hit you. Or hurt you in some way. I can't say I really understood how to respond. And it would take a very long time to come to terms with my own interpretation on the complicated feelings of love. You had a serious love as I struggled with my own selfish one. And you didn't deserve to be out there on your own.

I lay flowers on the graves of icons that I have. It doesn't diminish the graves of those I knew personally. I think the celebration of the tragic public figure is a fascinating one. The ones that are closer to reality are harder to celebrate; you just feel so much more for them. I'm learning.

I am ingrained with the fabulous that you are.

Know that I love you, not in spite of, but because of everything.

I am so glad you're still here.

--V

Criteria

You are not likely to please me, but I do not recommend you allow that to discourage you. I want you to keep trying. I want you to think about all of the ways that you can make me happy. I am not naturally an unhappy person, but many days go by where I am happy and you are not the cause. I want you to have exclusive rights to my joy, to my pleasure, and my satisfaction.

I want you to write me poems.

I want you to talk about me to your friends. The good stuff, the bad stuff, the stuff I’d murder you into slices for saying to anyone else. I want them to look at me with crude eyes, widened at the very nature of my shames. I want others to look at you in awe for the patience you must possess, and consider the attributes that I must have to make me worth your time.

I want you to never trust me within an inch of your own life. Know that I can end this with a single word, that you would have to pack everything you’ve every brought into your house, and leave it empty so that I may stay there instead of you. I want you to sacrifice everything you’ve ever wanted out of life and take the risks you know that I won’t.

I want you to follow my dreams.

Tell me what you are afraid of. Tell me what I shouldn’t be afraid of. What afterlife do you think we have to look forward to? What reward will be worth all of the pain that we suffer for?

Leave me when I ask you to. I do not need your time with me to be constant. I need you to leave me alone and allow me to leave for days, weeks at a time. If I find someone else, understand and grieve for your loss. If I come back to you, celebrate unto the heavens that you learned the error of my ways and hold me tight so I cannot leave. Let me leave when I want to again.

Frustrate over the inconsistencies. Cry over the failures. Promise that you’ll never do any better than me.

And never believe anything I say to you.

Except this.

And even then.

Eden

I am reluctant to tell the woman at the front desk that this is my first time. I do not know what is "better" -- the status of virgin or distinguished pro. I allow myself the brief moment of judgment for others as I decide the latter to be "depressing." But I understand, intellectually, that this is a fleeting judgment, as the novelty may wear thin, but the routine a safety net.

But I'm 26 now. What the fuck do I know? I've found myself in the beds of all sorts of people, and even had the odd scare of procreation. But here in some divine country orchard paradise, surrounded by apple trees, is an eden filled with rooms.

There isn't a special room for leather. There isn't a special room for feet. Couples can go anywhere. One does happen to be lined in plastic--but even if deigned to declare myself a seasoned vet, would not have inquired for what purpose. But in general, it seems all very multi-purpose. The guests in the rooms don't have to hang their head as they walk to room 47, even as the discreet eyes widen, "He's into that?!" You can even decide once you enter.

A sturdy, weathered mango of a woman stands guard, her eyes giving away her status as proprietress.

"Sugar, you want Angela. Up to the left. 62."

My mind races, pretending to be either an architect or a mathematician. Are there really 62 rooms in here? I thought of the outside structure. I was never good at spatial relation, as Angela will soon attest to.

For a while the house seemed so small and now it's a bustling factory, smoke stacks churning, and assembly lines to fill their goods.

Room 62. I am escorted by a man who has trained himself to not looks at the women who work here. Perhaps on his first week, it was a candy store but either he was swiftly reprimanded or the candy cost too much.

He doesn't look at me either, probably trained to intimidate the men who come here just enough to not risk assault on the workers, but not shame the into thinking this is the best day they'll have this month. The stairs are gleaming with a faux gold leaf trim, an oddly tacky detail in their otherwise stately Tudor barn of a place.

I pass the doors of gracious lying women who coo behind with sincerity but exaggeration. The men, while abundant, are easy to overlook--I haven't heard a single masculine voice.

Further down the hall, with a forest green carpeted pathway to lead me, I find a cherry wood door with an emblazoned "62" impeccably gleaming.

I knock. "Come in."

I went in, nearly blinded by a room filled with fuchsia tones. I put the flowers on the table and made my way to her, deceitfully thin in her best bustier and heels.

I had missed her more than I realized.

We played the best damn game of backgammon since when we were kids together.

"You are the best brother," she clucked, "But you never let me win."

I let my laugh reach the halls.

Rings Around

I wore the ring a good two years longer than anyone wanted me to. I was told to let it go, drop it in a bin, maybe get some money for it, or throw it in whoever's face in retribution. Easy words. This ring was a symbol of my accomplishment. Inevitably, yes, it became a record of my failure. But I worked damn hard for it. Having to pass off something you've earned and fought for only to realize it was a blood-spattered white flag for some time now is no easy matter indeed.

But the ring came off quickly for a moment. I hesitated. For months at a time, when this would occur, should a bit of dirt or lipstick or hair product should see its way into an improper crevice between my skin and the metal, I would casually remove it, rinse, and reattach my diploma of love everlasting.

In the moments of displaced passion, it never seemed suited to be worn during casual encounters. I would tuck it in a sock, or my knapsack by the door, better left off my mind during flatward interactions.

But this time, slip. It clang against the pavement. I pocketed it, not at the moment concerned. I considered for a moment. I could it put it back on, regain my moment of "that's pretty, isn't it? The world is shit, isn't it." But I left it in my pocket nearly a night's length.

Naked, uncertain, and a little shy, I am walking around town. And I am alone.

Elegance

"Do anything you want in life. But do it with some goddamn elegance. Be a marching band. Be a priest. Be a clown. But do it with grace." -- Vivienne Satienne

Vivienne had it all in perspective. She knew even the trashiest bordello could be looked upon with admiration if the ladies held some respect for the work. Forgiving of course that many things in life we are forced to do and therefore we are less likely to project the much needed oomph and ahh that our tasks require to resonate with the otherworld, she knew what she was talking about. Essentially, without elegance --as she referred to it; she may've just as well said "class" or "dignity" or even simply "honesty"-- we were all desperately close to appearing like the very pimps and whores we often are.

She came from a time where you smile and nod. Or sometimes simply nod--smiling made no difference; it was and it was--you don't decide and whether you enjoy it is hardly the point of it all. Her parents raised her with a work ethic that she transferred into fierce dedication towards presentation. On her first interview with a would-be Hollywood producer (the grabby hands from behind lot 4) she knew to be taken seriously, he would ignore the torn stocking and the amateur lipstick job if she kept her shoulders back, made no care towards the absolute sin that was her fur (darling, the line between chinchilla and opossum is bolder than you'd once believed), and spoke with authoritative sweetness.

It was a bit part, but a snowball into better bit parts. I would sit wide-eyed as she'd tell me celluloid scraps inappropriate enough for my six-year-old ears to be wildly frightening and alluring all the same. In my eyes, no greater star... to the world, a never-was.

If I am to be a never-was, I shall at least allow myself a strong shot of confidence, some impractical shoes, and the hunger that comes from eating too often to then very well starve.

A toast.

Ode to a One Night

Stand.
Or don't.
Do anything but stay.

Discovering Vivienne (Part 1)

I'm finding myself obsessing about the men in my grandmother's life.

I am well aware that she kept secrets from her children, one of which ended up being my naive but loving mother. Vivienne, in her tenure as employable if not memorable actress of the golden age of theatre and screen, met several callers around the studios and (if letters serve as any indication) back alleys.

Whether I have more in common with Vivienne than I initialized could have realized, I know that she laughed off all decadence with a wave of Sally Bowles' hand gestures. "Oh, Viktor, mah deah, it waaaaaas wonderfullll... but I dearn't tell you too much. You'll get ideas."

I had lots of ideas. And when Vivienne died, I felt it only fitting that I completely discard her request for discretion and privacy and instead pore over volumes of her journals, scrap books, and notebooks marked "Viktor, you naughty boy."

She knew me too well.

But she didn't exactly hide it that well.


"VIKTOR... One must never apologize for curioisty. I am certain you waited a proper time after my burial (good heavens, if I'm on that fucking mantle!) to open these.

I suggest you move past the childhood years. They are lean and uncomfortable. You're after glamour. That comes--briefly--in my New York years. Los Angeles... more lean. The fattest and happiest times is in London. You can live longer than you'd suspect on the mash you find there. It helps that you have a swallow and then never want for it again.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

I love you, Viktor. You were the best thing my daughter ever managed to do.

Idolize me as I you,
Vivienne"

I moved Vivienne from the mantle that night, to the porch.

The chimes sang me to sleep.

Flood

When I was younger, we lived in a modest house--very condensed, ever so cozy as my mother would refer.

One sullen autumn, I heard a noise emanating from beneath my bed. Being between the ages where I would either hide from monsters or nod solemnly at inadequate plumbing, I sat up curiously.

I stood gently, trying very hard as to not breech the floorboards, and careen to my death. I held my head to floor, feeling my ear on the chilled wooden planks. A hazy, frizzy sound not unlike static electricity or a spray of water.

Water.

I thought of all scenarios: the house caving in from the pressure of a burst pipe, drowning all my family and earthbound possessions within a grave marked by undrinkable water, formulating a pool of morbid air bubbles as suffered our final gasps.

Or--well, nothing else was coming to me. So I stood upright and quietly got back into bed, awaiting the inevitable doom that must befall us.

I said nothing.

I shook a little until the waters wrapped me in their embrace, my body numb and nonresistant.

I was asleep.

But the water did continue to rise, not to the depths I dreamt, but to an almost worst midpoint.

My father spent the morning hacking away wood boards; sparks and clangs overshadowed much of the otherwise sunshine-exhumed day.

No one knew how this pipe, running throughout the house could have gone unnoticed by the entire family. We all had slept through it, hadn't we. If only one of us had noticed so much sooner, we could have attacked the problem faster. But alas, none of us did.

I burned my fingers on the iron that day. With no running water to balm, I sat quietly, unable to sob.

My mother thought I was so brave.

Living Together

Briefly in my travels, I was living east of Chicago (or perhaps North New York City) or somewhere altogether else. There were six of us total, although seldom at one time.

JIMMY, if one were to be certain of his real name was a longterm smoker with an ash voice and dark cuticles. He was the primary breadwinner who sold unmarked tablets in discrete paper bags for jittery 2am visitors. His main concerns included avoiding police officers, sexually pleasuring his wife Alma, and taking large doses of cocaine that quite easily prevented him from accomplishing terribly much between the hours of 9am and 5pm.

ALMA herself worked down the road at a florist. She loved cheap jewelry, nail glue, and romance novels she'd buy off the rack six at a time, and resell for dubious profit to the used bookstore on the first floor. She would never make more than 60-65% back on the books, but it was more of an odd satisfaction for her to cheat the system... somewhat.

Alma's brother was a large man named JULIAN and despite the fact that he did not share a race, accent, or last name with Alma, was stalwartly Her Brother. At least between the hours of 9am and 5pm. He eventually stopping coming and going and simply stayed. He became a regular customer to Jimmy and soon after stopped talking about the spiders everywhere that only he could see. He retained his job as mail clerk nearly three weeks then but by the time I left, he was more concerned with painting the window panes very, very slowly. Those windows took about a month to dry.

KENSEY was next: a totally clean, straight, thoughtful guy I suspected was writing his disertation on The Human Condition using us all as fodder for his research. Instead he was simply making his rent, sleeping when he could, and heading out to a nursing homewhere he worked as a cook. I saw him for about seven hours total, so I don't know much about him. He eventually published a bookk, "Lfe in These Drug Addled United States" and wrote me a check for 30 dollars.

Finally, there was MARLA, who claimed she was an actress, had zero tolerance for Jimmy and Alma, but appreciated the dense fog that precluded their awareness towards her nonexistent financial contribution to the household. She successfully bobbed and weaved Jimmy and Alma for weeks at a time, convincing them through silence and lack of eye contact that she wasn't even there.

Marla was the reason I eventually left. She managed to somehow convince Jimmy that she was the one who was living in my space, paying my way, and the owner of my luggage. To be perfectly honest, we did share a similar complexion and were using each other's rouge but it was a nonsense approach all the time. It took all my strength to tip my belongings from her meth-friendly hands.

I ducked into a library for my final week in town and found my next benefactor on a Thursday.