Notes from Viktor

Criteria

2011-11-01T15:16:00.000-04:00

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

2011-09-28T14:37:00.002-04:00

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

2011-02-11T19:06:00.000-05:00

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

2010-10-09T03:50:00.003-04:00

"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

2010-07-16T18:49:00.001-04:00

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

Discovering Vivienne (Part 1)

2010-06-15T21:51:00.002-04:00

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

2009-11-20T17:35:00.002-05:00

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

2009-05-11T12:13:00.003-04:00

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.

Comforting

2009-04-08T01:05:00.003-04:00

I find myself sleeping covered in blankets these days. As one with a severe affection for the chilled, I dislike this sudden want of flannel and fleece to keep my naked body warm during the night. I pile it upon me, layer after layer as if I expect a princess to sit upon me and discover her royal line. Laying unblinkingly in the mid-night, I thought to myself "Perhaps I throw so much down upon me as to not just float away."

Indeed, I have been feeling somewhat untethered to the ground, unfixed my to keepings. I do not enjoy it. As one may surmise, I have a certain taste for adventure, but tedium has its delights as well. Certainly, wandering from place to place leaves you uncertain whether you will be eating that evening or if your rest will involve unforgiving haystacks or a calming yet unmoving rock of some sort.

Sticking to one post is actually quite like me. My father did not travel. Vivienne did, of course, in her "career on the stage and back allies," as she called it, but my father would stay within the same local towns and my mother stayed at home. I know now she resented it, but at the time, I thought it rather pleasant. She would allow me to act out a one man show as I played the Hatter, Hare, and Dormouse all the while in the back of her head she must have been saying, "God damn, Finland is probably beautiful at this time of year."

The traveling began when I left home to find my fortune as it were. Circuses, theatre performance groups, whores, and thieves led me to where I am now: a short walk from somewhere else. Our group is tired these days; half asleep after eighteen hours of pulling ourselves through hog-covered pastures in Scotland or perhaps bustling through the fancy horse-driven cabs in the City. I'm sure I've forgotten.

But the cold that once refreshed me now merely... makes me feel cold. Certainly this winter has only just begun and I know I just haven't the socks to make it through.

Love Letters

2009-03-11T23:23:00.003-04:00

At first it was all I could do not to read them. I had found them stashed in a trunk that by appearances had every intention of being presumed forgotten. However the dusty atmosphere in the southwest attic corridor coated nearly everything in at least a thin filament, so it bared to reason that at least someone was sneaking regular peeks at this collection during indeterminate intervals.

And, truly, a collection it truly was. Stashed within pockets of the inside cover, taped fondly under aged photographs, and sealed and opened and resealed, was a box. The box was marked with a black lace rose pattern, peeling at the edges but otherwise in tact (although whether it had been lovingly reglued over the years was unknown). The hinges on the box, wooden and stained before its decoration, were not nearly new and the clasp was more of a suggestion than anything else.

Inside, were stacks of papers, folded repeatedly, and the last two the most weathered of all.

"My darling. He will never leave you, for he loves you as much as I do. I do not envy his sincere disappointment when I've stolen you away and our lives become one."

"My darling. The war rages on in my soul during this time of confusion. I know now that you must stay with him, despite the hopes of our own future. Never forget me. Someday perhaps the complications that deal ourselves in our own wretched lives will dissipate and and we will have the opportunity to be one, without prying eyes or half-hearted commitment. With sincere affection and regret."

Naturally, I was stunned. I stayed silent, very still for a long time as I tried to process all of this. A woman that I thought I had known all this time who kept a secret correspondence. A lover from somewhere indistinct yet with a readily available postal service. My world was not shattered, no, but rocked in increasingly ungentle waves.

I quietly, with moisture in my eyes, folded the papers and restacked them to their places. I closed the box with the letters inside. I reclasped the vaguely fictitious latch on the front of the box. I placed it back in an everyday, unsuspecting, nonthreatening location, nearly just at the edge of window, signifying no true value of it's contents for what was it but a box of random jumblings, perhaps pins or thimbles or disinteresting, outdated wires for appliances a neighbor couldn't bring themself to toss out so you took, knowing you would never utilize any of it.

I walked silently to the stairs, my only betrayl a hushed creak under my footsteps.

As of today, having read these letters, and while I would continue to love regardless of whatever the past held, I was never exactly going to think of my mother the same way again.

Gossip

2009-02-10T01:56:00.002-05:00

I contemplated writing some great essay on the morality of gossip--its complex aromas situating between malice, good fun, bald lies, and particularly the thrill that you are sharing tales that may return to their illustrious moron of a target. But that seemed more pretentious and heady than even me.

It all comes down, I suppose to Fucking Other People. Either the salacious rot is literally about some floozy shag and a half or it's about ruining someone, taking pleasure in another's unaware misery--or having a laugh at Thank The Christ we aren't as damned fools as the one we dare speak of.

I suppose I have failed at catching myself before the essay began. But I'll attempt--no demand--to be brief.

Nobody Gets Theirs. No--no one will get what's coming to them for their fabrications or (worse) blatant honesty. In fact we just go on, and if we learn of the stories our beloveds have said, we make a fuss and gossip on back to The One we think hasn't told the same story we've just heard. Because if we didn't, we would be too afraid to again connect with anyone--be it parchment or flesh. When wronged by the gossip we've heard about ourselves, we go on and spread it to someone else because Damn The Mouth that started it, but Bless The Ear who will hear our side. Oh, and what a bitch she was, you know; did you hear what she wore to the festival? Total tramp.

Eventually we--or perhaps just I--will forgive or forget (Never Both) the wronging party and move on with lives, perhaps with them again.

Because without the gossip, you'd never know anyone gave a damn about you.

and that almost is worth finding out for.

Monsters

2009-01-08T01:00:00.004-05:00

I was mad with Theresia's lover--and I can't promise I won't be again--but I go through moments of empathy. He is in love, going through his life. He does not owe me or anyone anything. He is doing the best thing for him, which is something I cannot deny. I've done everything in my power to do so as well.

Sometimes it works out. Others, rather not.

A vicious world greets us when we wake up every morning and when we go to our beds, the thoughts run through our brains, desperately trying to find a way to make it better. Some smoke, or drink, fuck like gods or schoolchildren, bury themselves in work, learn from professors... still more are privileged to find someone who is willing to wake up with them, to face that vicious world with sword in hand--side by side--to fight the real life nightmares.

When you wake up without for the first, second, thirty-eighth time, you feel abandoned. How dare they go off to fight someone else's monsters.

To risk the fortune cookie parallel--I suppose we're meant to fight our own demons. But to be fair, I was there with her monster for monster. Demon-fighting is not just left up to one party. I can't argue that perhaps I failed... perhaps the monsters were too strong.

Or too weak. Yes, maybe, I fought the wrinkled rat beasts away too fast. She had no reason to stay. Or this new guy has no monsters to speak of, knows when he should shut up, and fucks like a knight off to war.

Tonight--only tonight--I hold a truce, my successor. May you experience love, joy, and undignified pleasure at my expense. For it has nothing, truly, to do with me.

But someday, when you tire, when you burn, or take your leave to the battlefield you have long neglected, I ask this:

Break her heart.
Make her grieve.
Bring her new monsters.
Monsters I can deal with.

And do not love her as much as I do. When you leave, and you will leave, you will have saved yourself some demons as well.

Diaries Kept

2008-12-02T01:14:00.005-05:00

Dear Vivienne,

Glorious--strange news... I have met a wide-eyed, silent little slip of a girl. She seems to be telling a sad portrait of a story. I needn't believe it all. I know there is truth even in the most vicious of lies--but I am not as certain she is so aware.

I read her journal. She pressed it to my chest one night. Her eyes told me read it--or burn it--perhaps one right after the other: glimpse enough of the tortured thoughts on the open page, commit snapshots to memory, and then incinerate all but the very last of her words.

I read, for hours, her horror stories. In the morning, I returned it to her. Her eyes were never as green as but in that morning light.

I asked for it again the next night. I had seen her scribbling furiously in the margins. She shook her head--she would not. Perhaps there was finally something she had written that was so personal. Or perhaps this was a new journal, the other cast off in a trunk or a lake or a firebed and such new entries were not for my eyes.

The girl has murals of her dreams up and down her arms.

21/39

2008-10-27T14:34:00.004-04:00

I had a love affair with a man in my early 20s. He was in his late 30s. We had this game that we enjoyed to play. He would tell me tremendous lies and I would pretend to believe him. I would tell him tremendous lies and he would pretend to give a damn.

It's not a time I very proud of, as I have my suspicions that this gentleman was no gentleman. He may have been married. He may have had kids. He may have been using me all along to get through some early (or late; he may be dead by now) mid-life crisis. It's all very possible and likely. But I enjoyed it for what it was: encounters with lightning. Our affairs were split into multiple stormy encounters, conversation for the sake of hearing ourselves talk: me pretending to be much older than I was (which, admittedly may have been a turn-off for him) and him pretending that he really had more than an hour to spare when he was with me. 59 minutes later and he was almost certainly out the door. But he'd be back. He always came back.

Well, until he didn't.

Good Advice

2008-09-11T14:23:00.004-04:00

Dear Vivienne,

Life is interesting. You promised me that it would be. I remember you told me it would be difficult. No one else ever said that. Mom was fair about it; she promised that if I worked hard then I would reap the benefits. Dad said that things would not be handed to me in life. For a work ethic, they basically imparted that I had a lot of shit to do if I wanted to get anywhere. You said that however hard I worked, I would be met with resistance, troublesome people who would stand in my way or say no I cannot do that or no you must not do that, and sudden realization that because I truly want something does not automatically mean I will get it.

Earlier, I thought that meant, well, then why work at all, hard or soft on projects or love or commitment or schedules. Just fuck it all, seriously. Fuck It All Seriously. Do not take anything for granted, but accept the things that come and seriously ignore adversity, move past it, and try to find something else that works instead.

Now I am not so certain. I should have asked you to be more specific. It seems that all the good advice I ever got was in metaphors. That's lovely, but what happens if I'm interpreting it wrong? What if I took it wrong? What I was wrong? It only now occurs to me, likely dozens of years too late that the people giving me advice could have been wrong.

Even you, my dear Vivienne... you have lived sixty-seventy-some years and you must know by now that through those turns and twists that you had to turn and twist backwards to get to where you started and try again. And it must be that the advice you gave me at 8 or 18 must have been based on what you learned. But in those 10 years, you must have learned something as well that may contradict what you earlier said. So who do I listen to... the grandmother (yes, Vivienne, I know) that told me so at 8 or the grandmother (yes, Vivienne, again) at 18? All in-between? The days between those years, you spoke to me, were there clues to transitioning opinions? Surely.

Am I asking too much? I can't depend on you to know everything or tell me exactly what to do unless I was I researching to play you onstage (sometimes I wonder if I'm not). So maybe I think that I ask too much of you, am expecting you to give me all the answers when you had to struggle them for yourself. But can't that be the benefit of at least going through it all? To know, triumphantly, that you can impart what you had to go through so the one you love does not have to go through what you needed to go through to get through it all.

Vivienne, I must confirm: I have no idea what in the hell I am doing.

My love to you this holiday season,
Viktor

Afterglow

2008-08-28T00:33:00.002-04:00

When Theresia left me, I went several months sleeping alone, staring blankly at my eyelids, and unable to think of anyone else.

And then one day, I woke up not alone. I turned to see an attractive, young woman next to me, sleeping a restful and apparently deserved slumber. A pang hit. My first lover since Theresia and I felt guilt. I had gone so long with nothing but a longing next to me as a I slept. I was suddenly faced with my desire for human contact being met with just anyone. It was not love--not a sweeping feeling of completion. Just flailing bodies. Satisfaction. Orgasms. A few.

Was I suddenly over T? Impossible. A love of all ages reduced to a slut moment of weakness. No--still hurt. Still pain felt within to ensure that I was not loved back. Somehow for a few hours and a lot of wine, I had gotten over it long enough to be met with with desperately search my mental faculties for a name that wasn't coming. She didn't stay long enough to warrant tea and a scone, never mind a formal introduction.

Nor did the second girl. Or the forth. Or the young man I met outside Blarney's city limits.

Why am I doing this?
Why do I enjoy myself?
Why do I still not feel "over" as what Theresia so solemnly requested I succumb to us being?

Over.

Lovers since... lovers that paled in comparison to passionate companionship, but remained worthy alternatives to the bleak sorrow for the three hours before that I would pass out every evening I put a nightcap on.

The lovers came and went, rarely with return appearances, except the odd third audition which left me a week for a weekend, filling my brain with jealousy and fear that perhaps this repeat visitor was Theresia's incumbent. Naturally it was not, and the 3rd was charmless.

The worst became when the sex got good. More than functional--hot. deep. enrapturing.

It was easier to just assume I was swine who'd fuck Circe even with the apple in my mouth because that I was simply how I was made to be. While I could still argue that in theory, I would wake up, no sorceress to blame for my behavior, or my feelings of warmth and satisfaction. Feeling of being... happy.

And while every day kept me lockstamped in reality's flaws, I began to think that maybe I could be happy again.

That made me feel awful.

Mother & Father

2008-08-21T12:16:00.004-04:00

I think my father and my mother loved each other very much, even if they did not understand each other at all. I think it was an arranged marriage of sorts, almost political. This family merges with this family and lives prosper. There was no underlying resentment as far as I know, but they had entirely different ways on handling their marriage.

My father was a romantic. He would buy extravagantly, almost riches of embarrassment to my mother, on foolhardy occasions, making his conquest to top the last extravagance that much more difficult. She thanked him for his pleasantries, made love with him at least enough to grant him 2 children, and behaved as a devoted caretaker.

He would write sonnets, poems, lyre tributes... all in her name. She would smile, nod accordingly, and move on to the stove's grease gatherings with her apron in hand.

When his business failed, she held onto his shoulders, grazing her fingertips against his neck, and brushing her nails gently against the edges of his hair. She comforted him, gave him peace in a time he was certain he would lose her, us, his home, and hid dignity. She held him close to her in front of the fireplace, but never said anything about how they would eventually get back on their feet (she probably assumed we wouldn't), or that believed in his struggle and how we would persevere even in the economic ice age we were facing. She said nothing of the sort.

My mother did not like to assume things would get better, or worse, or remain the same. "We will know what happens when daylight wakes us up," she said once in a very purposeful if not entirely useful way, "and until then, we can dream as much as we like." She used the word "dream" negatively, as if to say (actually not as if, but definitely to say) that when we did get that glare of morning realization, the dreams will have served no purpose. They offered no truth or clarity. They were just fantasy; they would relate to nothing in the end. It was what we did when awake that truly mattered.

The business did get back on it's feet, my father managed to ensure we kept our home away from the lenders, and their marriage continued. When the lean years went and we all got fat again, my father would repeatedly chuckle, swirl his bride around the kitchen, and comment how she kept him fighting all along and it was through the strength she provided to him that kept him going. She would nod, smile, and gently caress his face while he shouted her praises. She would soon after find herself focused on another task, such as shining the candlesticks, or making a list of grocery items.

My father would leave the kitchen, and continue on through the house, dreaming of the woman who stood by him, and how lucky he was to have her. My mother would continue with her list, or begin contemplating whether the silver polish was beginning to weaken.

Treatment

2008-08-01T23:14:00.002-04:00

You learn to not use the word "anxious." They have syringes for that. If you say "impatient" or "concerned," they generally give you the soothing voice. But not the needle. Frankly, they do not care.

They know what they are doing, and you don't, so it does not matter if you are ready--you feel--to go. They will simply ask the same questions about frequency, consistency, texture, and shade. It's a personal experience laid out on charts swapped between shifts.

Some use their names, they introduce themselves--expecting no doubt to establish friendships for life or six hours. But they do it for relaxation--calming the patient, so they think they have control. At any moment they can shout out "Sarah!" as if it's a beloved friend that may or may not be several feet away. It's a fallacy--you are powerless. Pipes sprout from your backhands, gowns of indeterminate size and fashion replace familiar fabric, and you are checked upon. Eternally checked upon.

They do not like each other. The same stay with the same; different ranks exist and the Betweens mumble--some more loudly--"Why didn't she..." "Why did they..." "Who do THIS?!"

You get old in a hospital bed. Instantly, your body weighs down, your skin weak. You are suddenly feeble, as if the simple willpower of the Bed knows better that you must be in dire need of rest. Insomnia persists, but you hang there motionless, ready whenever the nightwatching god decides you can close your eyes, until they need you again.

Not My Bag

2008-07-23T17:57:00.003-04:00

When I was younger, I guess it must have been one of the primary school years... late, tho, almost secondary, I had an experience. I was not one of the tough kids in school. In fact, it must be known, I was something of a fop. I didn't have a lot growing up, in terms of possessions, but I made do. I took my father's old trouser pants, had no talent to make a stitch (still don't) so used safety pins to mend them so I wouldn't trip over them. I took a horrifying pair of scissors to my long shirts, tucking the tattered pieces into my pants (for both adding thickness so the pants wouldn't slide as much and also in case I ever grew taller and needed the shirts to be proper length again; it turns out, yes, I would in fact grow taller). I had a hat. I always had a hat. This was before I found lipstick, or eyeliner. But this was a time when I knew girls. I was just fascinated by them.

A lot of boys were threatened by that. They figured some toss of a boy that had it in with the girls must be up to something, and since they couldn't get close to girls (or didn't want to--this was adolescence after all), I was labeled early on as a sissy or a queerie. Fine as that was, it did put a cramp into my social life, and I began to withdraw a lot from the children at school, preferring instead to primp and puff my myself at a mirror, telling stories of enormous levity to myself, and thinking all along, someday I would fit in because I would discover something that they all would want to emulate.

The girls turned on me at some point. One little bitch in particular was named Gheraldine. She was a destestable whore of Babylonian proportions. She also was quite rich. Her father owned all the bird seed in town or something. We had a lot of birds locally, evidently.

So during school, we were all lined up for something--an assembly, a talent show, a bathroom break, who knows--and on the stairs I was stuck behind ghoulish Gheraldine in her designer heels of death (she was 13, ladies and gentlemen). She caught my eye. My eye was on her black, sequined handbag. I was just gazing into nothingness, the specter of shiny black shinyness of nothing. She chirped, "Oh, do you like it? My bag? Do want it?"

I ached. No. I did not want her fucking bag. I wanted to go home, and crawl under rocks and pretend that I was a spacedragon that was misunderstood by the world but was truly a kind and big hearted friend to humanity. I shook my head. No. I did not want her bag.

She scoffed, laughed, and twirled her hair with her free fingers. She used her other hand to dangle the purse as if to imply I was a mutt hungry for a scrap of meat. When her surrounding party failed to hear her delicate taunts, she made sure her voice carried better for a second reading.

I truly only have had a few moments of malice. But I didn't hit her.

Now I think. Maybe she wasn't such a callous, heartless whore of a human being with a knock-off bag that shone like the inky black of her soul. Maybe she was privately, secretly, and with a true humanitarian interest, looking to offer assistance with a young man cluttered with sexual identity issues. Maybe she thought, "You there, boy, take the purse. Let it be your beacon in this unforgiving world. It's yours. This is my gift to you."

And while I never took the purse, and instead acknowledged her open palm as a slap in the face, maybe she did mean kindness. Years later I would assume my true intentions on my I rejected the purse. It was not fear of being labeled a sissy. It was not that at age 9 or 11, I was shamed for speaking in a higher voice than the boys and a few of the girls. It was not even a pious disregard for the nonsensical beings who roared fits of laughter at the girlyboys they didn't "get."

Truly, perhaps it was that I had the foresight to realize, the bag was pretty and all, but I didn't have any shoes that would go with it.

I'm sure that I would've come up with a witty retort or such had I not instead taken her beloved bespangled purse from her, jammed my unusually tall boot heel upon it, and kicked it clear across the stairs and into a trash receptacle.

Wisdom that I would deem later as true, would dictate that I should have really done both.

Wait

2008-07-02T12:02:00.000-04:00

I continue to struggle with body image. I always thought that as a performer I was above that. Well, no, I never thought that. I always thought that a performer should be above that.

When traveling with the Burning Theatre, I found that the different faces within the sideshow act exuded confidence and forthright righteousness. They sang, they danced, and expressed themselves wildly within their unusual frames. And then offstage, they were quiet, withdrawn, and almost ashamed to be seen by their equals. When it's a circus, you're there for the crowd; when they cheer or jeer, they are there enjoying themselves. When they leave, you're left to yourself without a spotlight or a piano accompaniment. You walk by the misshapen mirrors and see yourself as a normal human being.

I admit I do not have scales, am not a dwarf, having missing or expendable limbs, or anything else that people would assume makes them a freak. Cosie said to me one time that she considers the audience a freakshow; a group of middle Americans or what have you, stuffing their faces with popcorn and candy, so convinced they are on the outside view of the aquarium. But they too have their flaws and indiosyncrasies, just on the inside. At least freaks have the honesty to wear it on their sleeves.

When on stage, it's no matter. You sing, you dance. No one at the Burning Theatre ever made me feel normal or abnormal. But since leaving them, I occasionally look down at my doughy stomach, my invasively pale complexion, and the acne marks that sometimes appear on my arms or chest and think "Perhaps living with the supposed freaks makes you that much more vain."

I am not firm, I am not taut; and when I look at my stomach and sigh, it's an accurate summation of much of my life. It is disappointing, but truly, I am not doing anything about it.

Fidelity

2008-05-25T02:04:00.004-04:00

This is no foreign concept, I assure you.

Despite what my lovers (or their village) choose to think, I assure you that I have only the purest of intentions when it comes to the fairer sex.

About that...

Having determined that sex is rarely so diligently sequenced or mandated by schedule or judgement, I consider no sex to be fair. I am merely referring to the ladies I am fucking--not the primal act itself.

Oh, and as for the gentlemen, I assure you: I have no never slept with a gentleman.

I'm too busy to sleep with anyone. I am certain I almost never sleep. Pirates don't keep their anchors much anywhere for long.

Ah, yes, fidelity. I have been accused of it, without warrant. I assure you that outside my odd tryst in Paris two summers ago, I am strictly one-at-a-time about the whole thing. Never you think that is some mandering moral concept attached, or worse, faith-induced fear. I assure you yet again that it's true for only one purpose: exhaustian.

I may have the heart of a carefree lead and the libido of a congressman but I simply cannot handle more than one affair at an instant. The small talk. The things in common--heavens, the things not in common. Their prattling family. I am not a people person. Quite honestly the only reason I conduct myself so boldly and find a new strumpet the moment the other's back is turned is only because I search--not for one to save me from myself--but for me to save myself from the previous lover.

Hard to Get

2008-05-16T02:14:00.003-04:00

And anyway, what does it matter? We pick up and move on. Nomads do it all the time. I read a book about a man who was deeply in love with a woman, but she left him. She explained to him that it was part of her culture; she HAD to go. He waved goodbye to her.

Of course I cried like anyone would, had they the necessary brain power... it was so very moving. But then, I thought, Why the fuck didn't he just go with her? He was a drifter, man! He had no family, no ties, and the town wasn't very happy with his relationship with her anyway! So he could have escaped persecution, found a purpose and fulfillment, been with the girl of his dreams. But he didn't. He watched her go and waved.

What he fuck is wrong with you, stupid manboy? She told you she HAD to, you spent three days lying naked on top of each other, and every third minute, she said how she did not want to leave you, and you STAYED! Was this playing hard to get concept so thoroughly ingrained within you that you wouldn't suck up your pride, leave the abandoned medical waste shelter you were squatting, and actually do something with your life?

I set the book on fire.

She Never Promised Me

2008-04-17T22:12:00.003-04:00

She never promised me forever--or any day that was not today--this hour--this moment. But I never expected her to go

We would always be together. She had other plans--adventures--the world was waiting.

"Am I not worth staying for?" I knew her answer.

"My life is not worth ignoring--I am worthy of the chance to experience it." But not with me.

"With someone else?"

Viktor, there is always someone else. She packed her things that night. She and her someone else were gone by next morning. I don't know where he came from. He may have been there all along.

Love

2008-04-16T00:08:00.002-04:00

The first time I fell in love, I think I was about 7. It was fleeting. Some girl that paid me attention. I think for a very long time that is all I wanted. My father was away on military excursions, my mother busy with mending our clothes and furniture to last longer than it possibly could, and my sister was off at an academy for being too smart for her own good.

I was at basic studies, and a girl gave me a flower. Not knowing what to do, I took it and ran away. I was afraid she would decide to take it back. Looking back, perhaps I was truly making a deranged statement about my home life.

I never saw her again. But I kept the flower for as long as I could. And then it vanished from beside my bed.

I suppose she eventually caught up with me.

Dead

2008-03-23T02:37:00.001-04:00

Mother always told me never to speak ill of the dead as they could not defend themselves.

Later, she told me not to say bad things about those who were alive as they still had time to redeem themselves.

Mother had good intentions. I would say something more about her, but I'm sure she is either dead or alive.