Archive for April, 2011

Pending Future Post

What’s more puzzling; That you have enough time to read blogs everyday, or that you don’t have enough time to post?

I’ve been bobbing, eyes and nostrils above water, pockets loaded with the stones of school, work, a semi-symbiotic relationship and personal issues that must be dealt with. In the meantime, my apartment looks like the ‘before’ picture on HGTV, I need to do laundry, my car needs to be decluttered, I’m studying like it’s my full-time job and I’m running rapidly out of tea and honey.

Whatever happened to the simpler, halcyon days of sex and drugs and rock and roll? Apparently they’ve been replaced with curling up in bed watching a Nexflix movie, the occasional vitamin or aspirin and an .mp3 replaying highlights of a droning lecture.

One day I’ll look back and fondly remember that these are the good ol’ days?

Categories: Breathing Above The Foam Tags:

It Was Only Today

It began as most every other day begins – opening the door just before, or exactly on the stroke of midnight. He could always tell the time because the clanging bells from an old church gonged faithfully, and steadily each hour. This time, there were three gongs left as he locked the door behind himself.

A chill escaped from the region of his lower neck through his upper back that caused him to shiver ever so slightly as he took off his coat and hung it up. It was the date, he knew. That date had come again.

Rich in self-loathing, he muttered an “Oh God” and drew on a freshly lit cigarette while he stared down at the empty street. He thought of the semi-celebratory opening of a beer, but was tired enough to deny the impulse. Standing in the shadows and grappling with a bout of ennui were to be the circumstances of the moment. He knew that today would not be unlike many of those days in the past. The past that alarmingly seemed to be distancing itself from his memories.

The church bells had gonged one AM before he realized how long he had been staring at the night zenith and mulling out of focus, listless in his stance with his broad shoulders drooping.

Sleep was alternatively deep and on occasion, frustratingly light – waking for no reason and without even a remnant of a dream sequence that might have caused him to awaken so sharply. Bright early morning came with the reminder that because he hadn’t slept his normal and consecutive hours in a row, he would probably take a late afternoon nap. A reminder that the date was just another to later tear off of the daily word of the day calendar.

Moments came that would bring capricious bouts of apartment cleaning spasms, but flickered and were extinguished within minutes. A brief, forced march to the outside world and through a local park had made him shower, dress and reintroduce himself to the warm sun above. The white noise of the busy city washed his brittle thoughts, and people watching as he sat on an empty bench handed him distraction.

The bells of the church gonged twelve times, each stroke deeply resonant and uniform with the last and the one after. The day was moving forward and already half had been lost forever.

“Is this how alcoholics begin?”, he wondered as he sipped on a long-necked beer back at his kitchen table. The growling that had begun as a plea had now grown to a snarl and he peered into the freezer for a morsel of microwaveable late afternoon snack. None called him to attention so he grabbed the closest package, heated it and gobbled even as it sometimes burned his mouth causing him to suck in air sharply to cool it off quickly.

Even more frighteningly than spending the day alone was the thought that if the opportunity presented itself, he was comfortably within the frame of mind that he would politely refuse. It would have seemed forced and would have come out of pity. The invisible barrier between his determination to make it alone and the unsettling shouting of loneliness had eroded to gel thin. What he wanted did not coincide with what he needed.

Six in total were the distinct reverberations of the gong. That meant six in total left. Six more to mark in sequence before it ended, lost to waves of eternity.

The inevitable call came later. First on the line sounded upbeat and he could almost touch his smile through the voice box. Second came, and with some enthusiasm expressed happy thoughts of love. Third spoke and uttered in teenaged monotone. It always happened the same way during this act: he asked more questions in order to keep the conversation flowing then they did, he always told them what a wonderful day it had been and that no, of course not, there’s more planned for later. “I Love You” to each having been dispensed, the line was vacated once more.

Inspiration to venture out once more was doused. Enthusiasm was strained from the nakedness of the phone call. It would have been a sham to drive somewhere random, find a seat at the bar, order a beer, have a small meal and smile. He felt that his thoughts would have been on display as if continually flashing on a rolling, red-lettered neon billboard circling above his head. Better to lazily lounge in the environment in which he was at ease with. One that knew the widening boundaries of his frustration and self-pity. One that knew with certain clarity what was stealthily bubbling up ever so incrementally and would be erupting soon enough.

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Unlikely Proposition

Who wouldn’t want to hear those words, I thought later?

She started off by telling me “You have lovely eyes.” I smiled and said “Thank you.” She then said that she bet that a lot of women had kissed my eyes romantically. Well, sure, I thought to myself, and they were tender kisses, laid down by velvety lips. Flash memories brought wonderful thoughts of encounters gone by.

I caught her looking at my butt when I was turned away from her and I flushed red.

With her smile still etched she said “You have a strong body for someone so thin.” I felt awkward but told her that I exercise a lot. Her eyes widened again and blurted “I’d like to see you with your shirt off.”  That stopped me short. She went further when she told me that she’d like to see me dance in front of her. This time it was my eyes that widened!

I gazed quickly at the picture of her that was in a thin, black frame on the wall. She was ‘a babe’ in that picture. Her trademark cover-story gleaming smile, her hair in a fashionable flip, a dip in the front of her dress that hinted at what lied beneath and a hem that was short, but even shorter due to a gust of wind that just happen to pass at the moment the picture was snapped and waved her dress slightly up and to her left. She was holding a sun hat, wide-brimmed and yellow that she held in front of her with both hands. Her petite figure was framed within the sun that was the background on the shoreline where she stood and it reminded me of a photo that might have been used to publicize a romance novel. Sweet, and very alluring.

She went for broke and whispered, just barely audible, “I want you in my bed.”

That was the line that shocked me. Although I’m not easily shaken, that pronouncement sent a shiver from my brain to my gut and caused me to involuntarily stand bolt upright. I heard what she said, but reeled with amazement at her bold verbal strokes. I felt the redness in my cheeks radiating heat down to my neck and became flustered.

Calmly she said “Come on, it will just be me and you having fun.”

I blinked, aghast at her words. I turned and walked away as I thinly smiled at her and said “Good night Mrs. Smith.”

Mrs. Smith is seventy-four years old and has progressing dementia.

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