Friday, January 8, 2010

story. and lullaby.

Bêtes de mode by Helmo (thomas couderc, clement vauchez) for Galeries Lafayette

maybe the story i just wrote will be published. maybe it will bring me fame and acclaim (which i don't really care about), more importantly, maybe people will read it and feel better. or understood. maybe they will hold a piece of paper with my words on it and feel somehow (optical illusion) that it were a hand, my hand, and it was holding theirs. (which i do care about) and after they read it they would think, yes, it is true. i feel alone, but i am not. not in everyway. in some ways i am not. and maybe some people would tell other people to read my story and they will also read it, and then, i will be given some money and told write, write whatever you write, we will pay you to write. and i will think yippy. while i am thinking yippy i will purchase a ticket. probably for a boat. a cruise or something. i hate summer, but i like the idea of laying out on the sun in the middle of a great big blue paddock with no weeds, all blue. blue ground and blue sky with white clouds and white foam. and i will drink icetea and start small-talk chitter chatter conversations with skinny blondes in bikinis who will smile on cue and after dinner we'll slow dance and i'll whisper in their ear various confessions about who i actually really (think) (possible that i) am, and i'll walk her back to her room and kiss her hand. she'll wait. and i'll think what the hell and kiss her lips. then i'll go back to my seat on the deck and sit and stare at dark dark nothing and listen to silent silent nothing and a chubby brunette will come and tell me a joke and i'll laugh and we'll have the most wonderful interesting conversation and i'll walk her back to her room and kiss her hand and thank her for a wonderful night, and think what the hell and kiss her forehead and her brown eyes and her lips too and walk off to read John Locke in my own bed.

maybe the story i wrote will engender some confidence in my own writing. and i'll take some daredevil twists and turns like i do in my head when i'm planning the little bastards and people will read the story i write on the cruise and think gosh darn that took some daredevil twists and turns he's sure got a newfound confidence here's a pat on the back pennyguy, hurrah. i normally don't think much of back-pats, i prefer hugs, but i'll take what i can get from a satisfied reader and curtsy twice once looking left, once right and take my brown suitcase and walk off the boat in, dear god, where'd my ticket bring me? how about Greece? how about... Madagascar? Hong Kong? Maine? Monte Carlo? Vietnam? where people will feed me dumplings and caviar, and will smell of soil and toil and the dirt of farm life and wear Brioni suits and dashing smiles as they step out of large saloon limousines with the doors held open for them. and i'll sit on the floor with the wrinkly skinned peasants and smile and nod and lean back in leather couches with botoxed barbie-dolls in gowns who smile like they wanna blow me in the back of a limousine later. (maybe later i whisper to her and get up to watch people play blackjack).

three months later i'll wake up somewhere. i avoid the heat so it will be autumn. whenever i wake up it will be autumn. when people ask why? i will say because i like falling. some will consider my response as being a literary metaphor and postulate various interpretations. others will simply account it to the customary quirks of the artiste. (which i am not). truth be told, despite my two successful stories, i will be terrified, petrified my next will be terrible. it will slowly dawn on me that this is to be a life-long obstacle. anyone who's read a book or two knows enough to know who they're up against; scary names like Marquez and Virginia Woolf and Rushdie's and McCarthy's and Capote's and Murakami's. so i'll wake up in a sweat and it will be coldish which is why i'll pull aside the black blanket and discover besides me a white skinned girl with dark hair. i'll have roused her and she'll smile at me, and i'll smile back looking at her small breasts. after breakfast i'll take a walk to the stone wall at the edge of the farm (turns out i'm on a farm some ways outside Dublin) and take a seat and stare out at everything emerald green and sleek grey. everything wet. my notebook damp since i got her. my pen leaks. my story cries for me, as though thinking oh dear, soo close, soo close. at this stage i'm trying to write a love-story because i haven't worked out how to describe the way as you get to know people better the kissing improves. that's all. small theme i suppose. but incredibly meaningful. turns out love is a dance. takes a month just for the hands to bump into each other enough times to cling on. it's evolution. primordial ooze fearsome and random gnawing at a beach shore till it has the courage to take one hesitant grasp. turns out love is a dance for hands finding the right positions. walking in step. finding sleeping positions. bodies discovering bodies. the lips working out their preferred patterns. motions. (she smiles when i kiss her nose. sometimes i change, but usually, it's nose, forehead, right eye, left eye, cheek, cheek, back to lip) all this happening over coffee. over conversations in bed, when, finally, i turn towards her and say i do it because i'm scared of everything. but also, after everything that's happened, because of nothing. i'm fearless. and at the same time, because of the same experiences that make me fearless, i'm terrified. she just looks back, finally, says, so what will you do? i shake my head, try and write i guess. she nods.

maybe the story will be published. if so i will ensure it has an inscription. they mostly all do. for Ashtree, my friend. or, Eman, remember? or for _ _ _ _ _, because we are also what we have lost. and when she finds it, and reads about our first kiss outside her house, when i tricked her by offering my cheek and quickly turning my head so she landed on lips (and before she kisses me she says oh god, people still do that? and i smile so our tongues meet mid-smile, what a gorgeous way to start), and when she reads about our second kiss standing besides her car, and our third in the car that i wouldn't get out of because of the kissing, she'll... i don't know. maybe feel her hand being held. (the Indian lady i met, a friend of my grandparent's, says to me i have no gift to offer you, i felt bad. please take this, she hands me a small piece of paper folded once, when you read it you will hopefully remember that somewhere there is a little old lady rooting for you, i feel soo touched... ) maybe the story is successful too. not just with the person it was written for, but with everyone. maybe, it was in fact written for everyone. everyone who's gotten to know someone slowly and felt their body become more inclined towards their new friend. maybe their bodies also became better friends. and hand-holding developed and kissing slowly made more sense and orgasms became regular (she looks at me, you came? i did. that's weird she says, she says you never come. i'm still surprised, i know right. she hands me some tissues, that's twice this week, record? close to). maybe because some few people read my story they started kissing slowly. have less sex and talking more. taking a second or two to kiss hands and feet. and foreheads and eyelids. (over the phone she says to me, he was soo hot. had your eyelashes).

maybe the story i just wrote will mean something. eventually. somewhere. maybe because of it, i'll wake up two years from now and find myself lonely in Tel Aviv. in Paris. in Jakarta. i'll feel tired. lost. i've been away for soo long, without medication prescriptions. i'll feel plagued and fatigued and sit on one of those long flights and my dad will pick me up from the airport. he's the only one who comes to meet me at the gate. no one else. as much as i don't care, it's still nice to see a smile as you walk off a plane. and he'll have his stupid hat on, and he'll hug me and smell my neck when he hugs me. and i'll be happy to see him. and i'll say, who's your doctor?, i need a prescription pronto. he'll nod whilst still smiling and say oh kay.


at night can you sleep little boy? try, try to sleep. if you do you can dream. if you sleep, can you sleep?, if you can, at night, you can dream little boy. and there won't be any more a dark house with dead roses in dusty vases. there won't be oppressive summers that feel like you're stuck in someone's mouth, and that make your rash play up. there won't be limited-download-internet. when at night you can sleep you will only remember little blonde girls walking barefoot across the roofs of red-tiled houses. in their hands they will hold the white petals of jasmine, and their dress will look like lace and cloud and the white petals of jasmine and when you look out you will see her like a slow moon and you will close your eyes and smell and it will smell like Haifa in the summer like jasmine. and it won't be thursday evening where you are. it won't be Adelaide or LA or the London underground where you are. it won't be. in your dream you will be soo soo far little boy, it will be breathless and you won't remember your yellow teeth and your lost youth, there, when you pick up spoons wet with silent film calm you will see in the reflection semi-spherical Viennese cathedral roofs and smile at dogs doing Charlie Chaplin tricks and every pen you touch will be perfect black and write perfect narratives where in every single one the women have such delicate ankles and such pristine breasts and such distinct charm, you will be seduced a million times just by their wit and their smile will be a solace unknown as you lie in bed alone and too-hot and stomach upset and eyes shut tight thinking sleep dammit fall asleep. when you sleep there will be a different moon. under this moon a million different lovers will lie and say a million different things till they swoon and kiss each other in a million different ways with their silent, groping, eyesless mouths whose only language is to part slightly and hold others lips like hugs or hand holding. but be good, be good for me little man, and keep your eyes closed and sleep. dear god, it's 2:46am, please sleep, tonight is too long.

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