After having bid Claire a tearful goodbye, I sat, so alone, staring wistfully into space on an airport chair, which, by the way, are surprisingly ergonomic, when an Irishmen intercepted my gaze. Stole it, in fact, by smiling stupidly into my eyes until I noticed him. He plopped down next to me and the smell was instantly overwhelming. The potato famine, I assure you, is over. This man had gorged himself on (bathed in?) potatoes. Immediately he started to speak of politics. Why is it that such men always talk of politics? To the rest of the world it is embarrassingly clear that this fat, spittle-flecked Irishmen could not be more out of touch with the political climate in America, and yet he expounded upon it. "Fookin Hilary... (Gallic muttering...) goin on out eh?" I smiled and nodded, as one should. He continued. The smell was overwhelming, like nothing I'd experienced before. "' 'Ell you get out there, you fookin lie eh? Bill comes in...heh heh...teaches her 'ow..." Was he waiting for a response? No, he didn't need me. "Calls her, says ay, fookin French out there... (Gallic cursing...) come out smellin a fookin roses." No idea what was just said. Smile and nod? Bingo.
My eyes water, I've suffered several shaming facial blows by the man's yellow saliva, I can't go on. Jesus, who I've since started believing in, came to my aid. Another Irishmen with a horn, the instrument mind you, approached my Irishmen from behind. They embraced. My Irish enquires after the other Irish's horn, which is not even in its case, as luggage should be, but brightly, shiningly naked. He responds with a playful toot. My Irishman laughs. My eyes reconnect with space.
Friday, 4 April 2008
The Savages
My grandmother, Nana, Bette to her peers, is reaching the end of her life. This weekend, the hospice has declared, my grandmother will die. It's saddening, sure, but less so than the two years she has just endured. In a twisted way her death is good news. The end is the end, and this is the end, but it's been such a long one. Everyone dies, circle of life, she had a good run, whatever one says in these situations, just won't apply to a life that has been unnaturally extended and reduced. Her end was prolonged, and that's what saddens me; the medically enhanced struggle for a life that should have ended. But, well, she had a good run, circle of life, right? Everyone dies. What can I say? I'll struggle just as she did. We all will. Tubes, catheters, respirators, we don't care so long as it's not the end. Well done Bette Turney. Nana. This is not your eulogy, but if it were I could sincerely say that you had a good run, hopefully it was an enjoyable one.
Thursday, 3 April 2008
You Bring the Sunshine With You
I told Claire I love her. Whispered it into her ear, in fact, the morning of her birthday. It came to me all of a sudden to say it, I did, and found I might have meant it. She gave my arm a squeeze, my lips a kiss, and remained silent. I didn't mind. The moment felt good, and minutes later she said the same words into my ear that I'd blown into hers.
The airport goodbye was terrifically sad, the stuff of movies.
I miss her.
The airport goodbye was terrifically sad, the stuff of movies.
I miss her.
Monday, 17 March 2008
Busch
First name Jessica, last name Busch.
My ex-girlfriend. She was a ten. Perfect. Blonde, big strong white teeth, hips, boobs, hair, legs, everything. I still think about her on occasion. We broke up about a year ago, maybe a year and a half, and she's got this new boyfriend Dante, your classic alpha male. Good looking, protective, loud and everything that entails.
But hold on. This must sound like I'm pining. I'm not, I assure you. I broke up with her. That's right, I left the prettiest girl I'm ever likely to date, and I'm proud of it. I admit, it was nice being a beautiful couple. We'd walk into a place and the air would ripple, heads would turn and then look enviously back into their soup. We'd smile our blonde smiles, she'd touch the small of my back, she'd sit, I'd follow suit, she'd look around, I'd look around, but that was it. There was embarrassingly little conversation, and all the while, as we sat so numb, so pretty, the room would be more and more aware of the paltry thing I was doing. They must have been able to see the knowingness in my eyes, my intelligence, her beauty, her vacancy. She was an object, they knew, so I broke up with her. Many times, actually. I couldn't stay away for long. She was after all very pretty.
Not being able to stay alone long, she gets a new guy, shallow as her, dumbed down, not minding the minimalist conversation, but presentable, fun, active. Am I jealous? Possibly. I'm presentable, shit, but brooding. She couldn't understand that. Nor could I...
Strikingly beautiful girl though. Here's the kicker. She's with Dante for three months, I get a text message asking what I'm doing and of course, it's Busch. I know immediately what she wants and I give it to her. Out of spite, whatever. It was her birthday, I slept over, and in the morning she left for LA to visit her boyfriend. She called me a couple times after that but it's over now. I could never do it again. I've moved on, to the less beautiful, but multi-dimensional girl. Here's to you Busch, I'm over your ass (but miss you all the same. Comforting, isn't it, to be with someone beautiful?)
My ex-girlfriend. She was a ten. Perfect. Blonde, big strong white teeth, hips, boobs, hair, legs, everything. I still think about her on occasion. We broke up about a year ago, maybe a year and a half, and she's got this new boyfriend Dante, your classic alpha male. Good looking, protective, loud and everything that entails.
But hold on. This must sound like I'm pining. I'm not, I assure you. I broke up with her. That's right, I left the prettiest girl I'm ever likely to date, and I'm proud of it. I admit, it was nice being a beautiful couple. We'd walk into a place and the air would ripple, heads would turn and then look enviously back into their soup. We'd smile our blonde smiles, she'd touch the small of my back, she'd sit, I'd follow suit, she'd look around, I'd look around, but that was it. There was embarrassingly little conversation, and all the while, as we sat so numb, so pretty, the room would be more and more aware of the paltry thing I was doing. They must have been able to see the knowingness in my eyes, my intelligence, her beauty, her vacancy. She was an object, they knew, so I broke up with her. Many times, actually. I couldn't stay away for long. She was after all very pretty.
Not being able to stay alone long, she gets a new guy, shallow as her, dumbed down, not minding the minimalist conversation, but presentable, fun, active. Am I jealous? Possibly. I'm presentable, shit, but brooding. She couldn't understand that. Nor could I...
Strikingly beautiful girl though. Here's the kicker. She's with Dante for three months, I get a text message asking what I'm doing and of course, it's Busch. I know immediately what she wants and I give it to her. Out of spite, whatever. It was her birthday, I slept over, and in the morning she left for LA to visit her boyfriend. She called me a couple times after that but it's over now. I could never do it again. I've moved on, to the less beautiful, but multi-dimensional girl. Here's to you Busch, I'm over your ass (but miss you all the same. Comforting, isn't it, to be with someone beautiful?)
The Plan
If I write it, it will happen. I always go to sleep telling myself that in the morning I will begin a new life, one of discipline, action, movement. Instead, I sleep in.
I stagnate. This 'plan' will stir things up. Possibly. Probably not. I tend too strongly toward inactivity, and hate to leave my comfort zone, as my mother refers to it. But here goes, an exercise in futility, maybe, but a plan nonetheless:
I. Cultivate My Vessel: this means going to the gym at least five times a week, which I already do, praise Jesus, partially out of a sense of vanity and wanting to look good. But here comes the tough part: Get up at 8:00AM three times a week and run. I think cardio is important, not that it will make me look any better, I'm too skinny as it is, but I think it will increase energy, awareness, and give a reason for the mornings. As it stands, I sleep through them.
II. Study: I take the Kaplan LSAT prep course this summer and I want to do well on the test. I figure that if I set my mind to just one thing, one thing only, it should be this test. If I do well, which is entirely possible, I could go to a great law school. I mean a great one. Berkeley, Stanford, Duke, whatever. I've got a 3.9 GPA and I'm smart. I could go. Even if I fucked around for ten years after I graduate Law school I'll still have that great Degree. I can't fail too horribly if I have a degree in Law from Berkeley. So I'll say it again, I shall study. I want to devote myself to it and I have nothing else to do this summer, so let's see if I'm as much of a genius as I fear I am. No excuses this time. Study.
III. That's it: Some plan eh? Start small, fail small. That's my motto.
I stagnate. This 'plan' will stir things up. Possibly. Probably not. I tend too strongly toward inactivity, and hate to leave my comfort zone, as my mother refers to it. But here goes, an exercise in futility, maybe, but a plan nonetheless:
I. Cultivate My Vessel: this means going to the gym at least five times a week, which I already do, praise Jesus, partially out of a sense of vanity and wanting to look good. But here comes the tough part: Get up at 8:00AM three times a week and run. I think cardio is important, not that it will make me look any better, I'm too skinny as it is, but I think it will increase energy, awareness, and give a reason for the mornings. As it stands, I sleep through them.
II. Study: I take the Kaplan LSAT prep course this summer and I want to do well on the test. I figure that if I set my mind to just one thing, one thing only, it should be this test. If I do well, which is entirely possible, I could go to a great law school. I mean a great one. Berkeley, Stanford, Duke, whatever. I've got a 3.9 GPA and I'm smart. I could go. Even if I fucked around for ten years after I graduate Law school I'll still have that great Degree. I can't fail too horribly if I have a degree in Law from Berkeley. So I'll say it again, I shall study. I want to devote myself to it and I have nothing else to do this summer, so let's see if I'm as much of a genius as I fear I am. No excuses this time. Study.
III. That's it: Some plan eh? Start small, fail small. That's my motto.
Sunday, 16 March 2008
Clairtje
In Dutch, Little Claire.
She just left, and waits even now for the #4 tram back to her father's. We ate two pizzas, like hermits, tucked away in my bedroom seated on a mattress in front of this very computer watching the final twenty minutes of Superbad, simply because we don't like my roommates, and can't stand to see or be seen by them. It's become one of those domestic situations that ripens and sours until greetings become monosyllabic and barely civil, dishes pile up, and the air becomes thick. Funny how that happens, that air thickening. It's palpable. I know it sounds trite, "The tension was palpable", but seriously, the goddamn tension is palpable. I live with five Dutch sorority girls, each pretty and ugly at the same time. One has great breasts, but she's 6'1 and took a wicked spill in the living room from which she cannot, in my mind, recover the grace her breasts used to afford her. Another smells, still another has those great Dutch breasts, but has the legs of a second baseman, and a good one at that. Their pros are outweighed by their cons. However, if I didn't have Claire this house would be one large regretful pitfall of sexual episodes for drunken Pat, each girl being a prime candidate for that deceptive enemy of the inebriated: The girl that approaches, but doesn't attain, beauty. Of course her failings, be they birthmarks, crooked teeth, or missing appendages (worst case scenario), are only apparent in the daylight, giving their true, ugly forms that vampiric quality that one cannot help but associate with the nearly attractive girl.
Yet Claire, truly, is a beauty. I've woken up beside her many times and haven't been thrown off by a thing. But she has her shortcomings, as do I, namely the gift, nay, the curse, of being able to recognize another's shortcomings all too well. Too bad. Will I ever be able to be with a girl for a long period of time without being consumed by her flaws? Maybe. You're almost the one Clairtje, but not quite.
She just left, and waits even now for the #4 tram back to her father's. We ate two pizzas, like hermits, tucked away in my bedroom seated on a mattress in front of this very computer watching the final twenty minutes of Superbad, simply because we don't like my roommates, and can't stand to see or be seen by them. It's become one of those domestic situations that ripens and sours until greetings become monosyllabic and barely civil, dishes pile up, and the air becomes thick. Funny how that happens, that air thickening. It's palpable. I know it sounds trite, "The tension was palpable", but seriously, the goddamn tension is palpable. I live with five Dutch sorority girls, each pretty and ugly at the same time. One has great breasts, but she's 6'1 and took a wicked spill in the living room from which she cannot, in my mind, recover the grace her breasts used to afford her. Another smells, still another has those great Dutch breasts, but has the legs of a second baseman, and a good one at that. Their pros are outweighed by their cons. However, if I didn't have Claire this house would be one large regretful pitfall of sexual episodes for drunken Pat, each girl being a prime candidate for that deceptive enemy of the inebriated: The girl that approaches, but doesn't attain, beauty. Of course her failings, be they birthmarks, crooked teeth, or missing appendages (worst case scenario), are only apparent in the daylight, giving their true, ugly forms that vampiric quality that one cannot help but associate with the nearly attractive girl.
Yet Claire, truly, is a beauty. I've woken up beside her many times and haven't been thrown off by a thing. But she has her shortcomings, as do I, namely the gift, nay, the curse, of being able to recognize another's shortcomings all too well. Too bad. Will I ever be able to be with a girl for a long period of time without being consumed by her flaws? Maybe. You're almost the one Clairtje, but not quite.
Freud
A dream. I know no one wants to hear about someone else's dream, but unlike you the world revolves around me. So I told my dad about it. Haven't gotten a response yet.
Let me tell you about my dreams last night. They were truly haunting and you were in all of them. If dreams are, in fact, omens, these ones are bad.
First it's you and I driving a Volvo. You're in the driver's seat and we run out of gas as we're trying to get away from something. I say, "Dad, you didn't put gas in?" It was your fault and you just told me to run. So we run. As we turn the corner you come up to me-I can still see your face, pale, as you lean over the wall and throw up. You're sick, you say.
Flash forward, we're in the backyard: You, me and mom. You two are still together, and we're playing with a baby, my brother, your son. You're teaching me how to massage its back, telling me if the skin turns white I'm pressing too hard. And I'm smiling and being gentle. I love this baby. Mom's at the BBQ, and you and I are off by ourselves, doing dreamlike things. The baby sits near the grill. Mom comes over to us and the BBQ explodes, we all laugh and go ooooooooohh until I ask where the baby is and my dream turns panicky. The smoke clears and the baby still sits next to the grill, however, when I go over to it I find that it is just a doll with one big eye and one small eye, mismatched, a creepy effect. I throw it aside and find another doll, throw it aside, and look to you, resigned. "Where's the baby?" You point to the roof. I climb up there via tree branch and find its organs, exaggerated, intestinal shaped, pink, sad. We share a moment then, I look at you and you look back, blurred, the baby forgotten, the dream already past us.
I woke up and told Claire about it. It got to me for some reason.
-Pat
Let me tell you about my dreams last night. They were truly haunting and you were in all of them. If dreams are, in fact, omens, these ones are bad.
First it's you and I driving a Volvo. You're in the driver's seat and we run out of gas as we're trying to get away from something. I say, "Dad, you didn't put gas in?" It was your fault and you just told me to run. So we run. As we turn the corner you come up to me-I can still see your face, pale, as you lean over the wall and throw up. You're sick, you say.
Flash forward, we're in the backyard: You, me and mom. You two are still together, and we're playing with a baby, my brother, your son. You're teaching me how to massage its back, telling me if the skin turns white I'm pressing too hard. And I'm smiling and being gentle. I love this baby. Mom's at the BBQ, and you and I are off by ourselves, doing dreamlike things. The baby sits near the grill. Mom comes over to us and the BBQ explodes, we all laugh and go ooooooooohh until I ask where the baby is and my dream turns panicky. The smoke clears and the baby still sits next to the grill, however, when I go over to it I find that it is just a doll with one big eye and one small eye, mismatched, a creepy effect. I throw it aside and find another doll, throw it aside, and look to you, resigned. "Where's the baby?" You point to the roof. I climb up there via tree branch and find its organs, exaggerated, intestinal shaped, pink, sad. We share a moment then, I look at you and you look back, blurred, the baby forgotten, the dream already past us.
I woke up and told Claire about it. It got to me for some reason.
-Pat
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