Personal Bitching Mode: Engage

Two women in my hands in as many days and I do nothing.

It's a fascinating thing to be disgusted with and proud of myself.

On the one hand, I look at me and see a pathetic weakling who possesses the hidden tools to be capable of anything I will and refrains out of cowardice.  I see beauty around me daily, physical and psychological, and my sex drive is more starved Calista Flockheart.  At times it's as if repression is changing me into an animal.

On the other, I look at me and see an individual who can no longer willingly engage in emotionally meaningless courtship and sex.   The emptiness after such endeavors is draining on a spiritual level, like I have forsaken my morals and my dignity.

What's more, these conflicting miniature tempests of frustration have made me angry beyond belief.  I have to literally stop myself from putting my fist through walls and people, especially when they seem out to confound and impede me.  Hopefully the therapy and the exercise can relieve some of my rage.

My favorite and simultaneously least favorite part is that I love the passion.  The anger is empowering beyond belief and tests my restraint to its absolute limits.  I am forced to wrestle my ego down and endlessly contemplate the contrasting nature of my emotions.  It impels me physically and intellectually, and like some absurd case of Stockholm syndrome, I don't know if I can truly let it go.

But hey, my plan has always been to be dead by 50, so mayhaps this will end up finishing the job.

A World Without Music

Come back to me.

I wander in darkness and silence,

With no music to keep my stride.

Deafened chaos robs me of sense,

Panicked confusion steals my pride.

There is no focus to focus,

No point to point.

The world is pillaged of locus,

Left grey, melancholic, and disjoint.

Come back to me.

Where is my heart’s harmony?

Where is my soul’s wavelength?

Free me from this monotony,

Giving meaning to my aimless strength.

I shield my tortured ears

As the machine grinds and squeals.

I hope through my shaking tears

That oblivion will not be revealed.

Come back to me.

All is deathly quiet now.

The world has become insensate.

My blessed music, where art thou?

It is already too late.

Recesses

What a time to forget a tie, Gabriel thought to himself.  He straightened his shirt and blazer as best he could in spite of the wrinkles formed by sitting in his car.  He coughed into his hand and checked the smell of his breath.  Using his car’s side rear-view mirror, he checked his face for any smudges or blemishes.  The only things that bothered him were his own hazel-green eyes, both of which betrayed hints of his inner nervousness.  He took a deep breath and closed those eyes, trying to compose himself instead of finding something else to worry about.  Satisfied, he headed toward the monolithic psychiatric facility.

            The thought occurred to be less politically correct about his destination – he was willfully entering an asylum.  The very name, though describing sanctuary by its definition, did not bring the happiest connotations.  Gabriel knew he was merely interviewing for a receptionist position, and a well-paid receptionist position at that, but the thought of being surrounded by lunatics, psychotics, and the tormented was very unnerving.  During his stroll to the door, he considered turning around more than once, but economic needs kept pushing one foot in front of the other.

            Half expecting something from a horror film, Gabriel opened the door and was greeted with pristine silence.  Everything was in perfect order and immaculately clean, from the air conditioning vents on the ceiling to the grout lines of the tiled floor.  Pale blues and faint greys amplified the bright indoor lighting and left Gabriel with a sensation that everything had been sterilized moments ago.  It took him a moment to register the reception window to the right of the welcoming room, and still another moment to realize that there was a woman sitting inside, smiling right at him.

            “How can I help you?” she asked practically the instant he saw her there. Her tone was very polite and warm.  As Gabriel approached her, he noticed she looked a little older than she probably was, with age lines around her eyes and mouth.

            “Uh, hi,” he stammered, still off-put by the surroundings.  “I’m here about the receptionist position.”  When the last word left his mouth he instantly regretted his answer.  She was more than likely the person he was going to replace and he had no idea if her departure was going to be an amicable thing.

            “I’ll let the doctor know you are here.  What’s your name?” she asked, her tone consistent.  It made him ease a little.

            “Gabriel Verachec,” he answered.

            The receptionist dialed an interior line, spoke to someone Gabriel presumed was an orderly, and hung up.  She explained that the doctor was finishing up with a patient and would be along shortly, and that Gabriel should take a seat.  The whole time she spoke, she carried the same unblinking, smiling facial expression.  It wasn’t hostile, or even very upsetting, but it left Gabriel wondering if it was something he’d have after working here – assuming he got the job in the first place.

            The next ten minutes passed very slowly.  There were no magazines or television to distract Gabriel and the receptionist, as pleasant as she had been, provided no fuel for conversation.  He watched the second-hand on the black and white wall clock twitch around and around, noting that every ten seconds that it made a little backwards motion before leaping to the next dash.  He examined his clothes again, pulling off some minor pieces of lint, and popped in a breath mint when the receptionist turned to face away from him.  Suddenly, the increasingly uncomfortable quiet was aggressively banished by the whoosh of double doors.

            “Where’s my new receptionist?” a man asked in a jovial and boisterous tone as he passed through the doors.  Strikingly handsome and obviously confident, the newcomer’s unstained lab coat, pressed pants, and shining shoes made him look like he belonged on some ridiculous hospital TV drama.  But what truly caught Gabriel’s attention were his hazel-green eyes.  They were identical to the ones Gabriel saw in the mirror not twenty minutes earlier, save for the assuredness in the new version.

            Interview etiquette took over, impelling Gabriel to stand, offer his hand, and introduce himself.

            “Gabriel Verachec, sir,” he said.  “Pleased to meet you.”

          “Are you, now?” the doctor replied sarcastically.  “Do you spend a lot of time getting to know psychiatrists?”

            “Only the ones who can potentially hire me, sir,” Gabriel answered. 

            The doctor laughed and said “Good enough.  I’m Alexander Kemp, purveyor of this fine establishment and, if you aren’t one to crack under pressure, your employer for at least the next year.  Let’s get this little chit-chat started, shall we?”

+ + + + + +

            Much to Gabriel’s surprise, the interview went very well and by its end, Dr. Kemp was giving him instructions on what paperwork to file with his predecessor to make things official.  The doctor’s easy-going nature and smooth intellect had dispelled practically all of Gabriel’s jitters and hesitancy, and belatedly Gabriel wondered if such a thing was a well-practiced tactic.  As he pondered this, Dr. Kemp surprised him again.

            “You know, Gabriel, as much as I’d like to have you work with us, there is one critical thing that needs to be settled before we go forward from here,” Dr. Kemp said.  “There are some truly disturbed people here and if we cannot acclimate ourselves to their conditions, our efforts to help them will be dangerously counterproductive.”

            “I can handle it, Dr. Kemp,” Gabriel answered, trying to be as convincing as possible.

            “I have to be the judge of that, Gabriel,” the doctor answered.  “Please come with me.”

            The doctor stood up and headed out of his office with Gabriel in tow.  They passed the dark and empty offices of other physicians and psychiatrists and Gabriel wondered if their absences were permanent or temporary.  He shivered a little when he realized how cold it was in the long hallway and though the doctor was facing away from him, he still used the pretense of straightening his blazer to pull it tighter around his shoulders.

            At the far end of the hallway, two large, muscular and seemingly dim orderlies stood sentinel in front of heavy steel elevator doors.  The men and the doors looked more like a scene from Fort Knox than anything Gabriel expected from a hospital in suburbia.

            “Gentlemen,” Dr. Kemp said in a pleasant tone.

            “Sir,” they answered and obediently stepped aside at the unspoken command.

            The doctor and the new receptionist entered the elevator and as Gabriel turned and watched the ponderous doors come together, he felt a pang of claustrophobia set in.  The entirely new experience was extremely disconcerting, but he smothered it before he ruined his chance at the job.  The doctor pushed a button to head to a lower level and with a pinch of vertigo, they descended into the belly of the asylum.

+ + + + + +

            When the doors opened again, Gabriel’s eyes spread wide.  He had expected to see more pale blue and off gray with a whiff of cleaning solvent in the air, but what greeted him could only be described as dank.  The facility’s plumbing ran visibly overhead, groaning and shaking with each rush of imported or exported water.  Sloppy brick walls pushed back the encroaching earth on all sides.  Hastily strung lighting zig-zagged down the corridor, doing a poor job of illuminating and an effective job of concealing what lay beyond.

            “Down here is where we keep our most troubled patients,” Dr. Kemp said as they exited and walked forward, in a tone without the slightest gravitas.  “Their conditions are so advanced that they remain a danger to themselves and those around them.  We have removed most forms of stimuli and keep them heavily medicated, but I must warn you that what you are about to see is not pleasant.”

            As the doctor neared the only two cells, deep at the end of the corridor, he called out into the gloom.

            “Hello, boys.”

            A thunderous crash boomed to Gabriel’s left, causing him to jump back several feet.  The impact shook the nearest hanging lamp and as the light swayed, it revealed and concealed the person responsible repeatedly.  The man inside the cell held the steel bars in a white-knuckle grip, the musculature on his arms thin but whipcord strong.  He held himself several feet off the ground, his heels pressed into the bars.  He was trembling with pent up energy and mewling in between long, messy, deliberate strokes of his tongue over his lips.  His breaths came out as wet, ragged gasps and long, unkempt hair covered his face down to the nose.  He wore only a pair of loose fitting regulation pants, pulled tight at that moment by a prominent erection.  His latent stink caught Gabriel’s nostrils then, making the new receptionist silently gag.

            “Gabriel, I’d like you to meet Jack,” Dr. Kemp said as if introducing a colleague.  “Quite the excitable one, as you can see.  Our mission here is to teach our friend Jack to refrain from giving in to his more base impulses.”

            The floor of Jack’s cell was covered in small pieces of loose white debris.  The smell of old food made Gabriel realize that they were the remains of shattered plastic eating trays.  When he looked back at Jack, the patient had his head cocked inquisitively to the side.  Jack looked at Gabriel, down at the debris, and back again, smiling the second time.  With a grunt, Jack dropped like a stone to the floor, rolled over, grabbed one of the sharper pieces of plastic and hurled it at Gabriel.  The shard came within inches of Gabriel’s eye and left a long scratch along the receptionist’s temple before clattering into the wall behind him.

            In a flash of movement, Dr. Kemp threw open one side of his lab coat and produced a hefty black gun.  Gabriel’s eyes flashed open in shock when Dr. Kemp depressed the trigger and pronged wires leapt at Jack before disgorging several thousand volts of electricity.  The imprisoned man writhed and spat incoherent obscenities before the doctor was satisfied and released his electric grip.  Jack pushed himself up and began muttering threateningly, all the while walking around his cell and punching the brick walls with considerable force.  Several wet pops likely meant dislocated fingers and broken bones, but Jack only growled and retreated to the corner.

            “Don’t…don’t be…mad, doctor.  He…he…he…he…hasn’t…had any…visitors…for a long time,” said a rumbling voice from behind Gabriel. 

            Very alarmed, Gabriel slowly turned around to the cell opposite Jack’s.  A huge shadow shifted in the depths of the chamber and lumbered its way to the front.  It was a huge and deformed man, with impossibly broad shoulders and cartoonishly large arms.  His legs were thick and stubby and the regulation clothes he wore were pulled taught around his bulky frame.  He leaned forward, eyeing Gabriel underneath a Neanderthal brow.

            “He knows the rules, Daniel,” the doctor said to the giant.  “That kind of behavior will not be tolerated.”  The brute’s gaze turned sheepishly to the floor and he nodded knowingly. 

            “Gabriel,” the doctor continued, “this gentle giant is Daniel.  Despite his appearance, he’s actually quite intelligent and, when his stuttering is under control, he’s quite the conversationalist.” Gabriel looked at the doctor with a momentary disgust caused by the insensitivity of the remarks, but the doctor didn’t notice.

            Daniel returned to the middle of his cell, pressed his back into the wall, and slid down to the floor.  He looked like a man robbed of all spirit and vitality, and Gabriel could not help but feel crestfallen as well.

            “Though we haven’t quite discovered what yet,” Dr. Kemp said, “something in poor Daniel’s past left him a broken and angry spirit.  He vented his incredible rage on anyone he could find and the police were going to throw him in prison.  Can you imagine it?  Poor Daniel would kill and kill until he himself were murdered.  The barbarity infuriates me.  Anyway, I happened to learn of Daniel’s case and had him brought here for treatment.”

            Gabriel saw huge scars forming random crossing patterns on Daniel’s hands and forearms and could only imagine what the rest of his skin looked like underneath the clothes.  It was not hard to envision Daniel as some avatar of anger, but seeing him loaded with enough medication to kill a normal man was just as disconcerting and much more disheartening.  Daniel began whispering to himself, with the occasional word being much louder than the others and changing the directions of the stream of consciousness that now flowed from his mouth.  It made little sense.

            “Ah, such a shame,” Dr. Kemp said.  “When he goes off on a train of thought like this, he’s unreachable for hours.  At times I think it’s a defense mechanism.  He does it constantly.”

            Gabriel clenched his fists in order to stop himself from shaking, and in all probability, turning and sprinting for the elevator.

            “Doctor,” he said, “this is nothing like I expected.”

            “Perfectly understandable, Gabriel,” Dr. Kemp replied.  “If you have to go for the day, feel free.  It’s a lot to take in.”

            “Uh, yeah,” he said.  “Thank you, sir.”

            Gabriel turned and quickly walked to the elevator.  He pressed the button several times, no longer concerned about concealing his discomfort and outright fear.  After waiting for what felt to him like an eternity, Gabriel sighed in relief when the steel doors opened and revealed the empty elevator within.  He entered and pressed the first floor button several times, but as the doors began to close, he looked up one more time.

            In the dusk of the corridor, he saw something that didn’t make sense.  He something that shouldn’t be.  He saw something that had a depth of meaning that he was far too afraid to explore. 

            There, in the shifting shadows that enveloped what had been hidden from the world, he saw three pairs of hazel-green eyes.

LAAAZZZEEEE

I'm going to stop being a bum and get back to delivering on this thing.

TOMORROW.


Mwahaha!  See what I did there?

*Note: Comments directed at the four crazy people who actually read this stupid blogspot.

In That West Texas Town

An homage to the work of Marty Robbins.

            I can’t say I’ve ever tasted kerosene, but the swill in my glass is as close as I’d care to get.  I’m sure the serving girl that brought it by said it was brandy, but she scampered off before I could check the damn thing.  But one must give credit where credit is due.  The stuff got me hammered fast and dulled the throbbing of the club’s dance beat.  I’m fairly certain I was drunk four double shots ago.  Or six.  I don’t remember or care at the moment.  Looking at or thinking about anything for longer than a few seconds makes everything start to spin, so my attention is rather hit and miss at the moment. 

            But there is one thing that I can’t pull away from.

            A woman stands at the middle of the dance floor, swaying and spinning like a hypnotic dervish.  Her raven hair thrashes and whips with a passion bordering on violent.  Ornate ink artwork writhes on the exposed mocha skin of her back and shoulders, as if the characters depicted are as entranced by the pounding music as she is.  She is the figure commanding attention in a room filled with beautiful people.

            Her name is Felina.

            It’s a name that every man around here knows.  She is the most tantalizing of contradictions- a famous enigma, an untouchable seductress, an illusionary promise of that which you want most and can never have.  You can see the lust in the faces of men who want her and women who want to be her. 

            A broad smile unfolds on my face for two reasons.  First, I cannot help but admire her subconscious domination of the club.  But more importantly, I have known her.  And she has known me.  I smile because I can see primal imaginations at work and because I know that those imaginations can never truly understand that their fevered dreams can’t begin to approach the bliss of the reality.  She is the closest to perfection any person should ever be.

            As I revel in my achievements, something catches my eye.  The very fact that it attracted my gaze from Felina is an amazement, but I am too lost in the moment.  A group of men has entered the club and the rhythmic crowd parts before them like the Red Sea.  Each of them is impeccably dressed and exuding confidence, but it is the one in the center that sets me on edge.  He is a man other men instinctually fear and respect in equal measure.  His combination of prowess and cunning is obvious enough to threaten that which other men work to achieve.

            I am so caught up in his arrival that I fail to notice his trajectory, and when I do, it takes everything I have not to spring from my chair.  He has locked eyes with Felina.

            The only thing restraining me from getting between them is that I know Felina and believe no man to be a match for her.   But as he approaches her, he does not try to join her in dance.  He does not pay her due respect.  He does not even stop, even when his coterie disperses amongst the crowd.  He strolls through the dance floor and straight past her, his eyes only leaving when to continue would require him to turn his head.  His game is painfully obvious and too crude to even laugh at.

            But Felina has stopped dancing.  For the first time, I see her face curious and the slightest bit confused.  The newcomer will not bow to her latent charms and she wishes to know why.

            She follows him to the bar and takes a chair two away from his.  For an eternity, neither does anything but order a drink.  Then, with a measured calm, he turns to her and says something lost in the thunder of amplifiers.  She smiles in return and a conversation is ignited.  I am no lip reader, but it is plain to see that she is tolerating his company well.  Even enjoying it, revolting as the idea is.

            The crowd, in its ignorance, has returned to its mundane and fitful dancing.  How they can no longer be concerned with the transpiring events is beyond me.  Felina is precariously close to the man now, toying with him and letting herself be toyed with in equal measure. 

            I cannot stop myself anymore.  I rise and slip through the mass of people, wondering why it never seemed to take so long to get to the bar before.  When I finally emerge, the man is watching Felina sashay back onto the dance floor.  I order a double shot of something slightly more expensive than my previous drinks.  I want to say something to the man, but it occurs to me that I have no idea what.  Felina’s renewed dancing only serves to distract me further

            “I don’t think she’s into your type,” the man says.  It takes me a moment to realize he is talking to me.

            “Excuse me?” I ask incredulously.

            “You heard me,” the man replied.  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you watching from the moment I got here.  You’re a little out of your league, friend.”

            “What business is it of yours?” I ask.

            “When I got here, Felina was dancing for the rest of you,” the man replied.  “Look at her.  She’s dancing for me now.  This moment is perfect and I don’t need your delusions of grandeur fucking it up.  Think of it as me doing you a favor, if that helps it go down smoother.”

            “You arrogant little prick,” I spit.  “You’re right about one thing.  I was watching since you got here and my impressions were right all along.  You’re nothing but a spoiled bastard who thinks he’s entitled to anything he wants.  Grow up and maybe I’ll consider asking you for a favor.”

            “Grow up?” the man asked with a smile.  “You’re getting territorial about a woman who isn’t going to give you the time of day.  Go back to your corner and deal with your little obsession.”

            I promised myself I wasn’t going to overreact.  I promised myself I wasn’t going to make a fool of myself in front of Felina.  I promised myself that I have enough composure.

            My fist lurches forward, deviating far from the perfect angle of attack my brain calculated.  As if warned of my intent, the man arches back and lets me and my arm swing past him.  I almost lose my balance, but I manage to turn, bellow, and charge, my arms spread wide like a football player.  I close my eyes instinctually before the impact, and with a painful suddenness I’m greeted by the bar’s front panels.  The world spins and I’m on my side on the floor, secretly marveling at the man’s agility and the stoicism of oak.   I rise with considerable effort and spit something that tastes like blood.  The rhythm around me has quieted and I hear the voices of large men shouting to clear a path.  They could be the club’s bouncers or the man’s entourage, but either way I’m not going down without getting him.

            I throw another punch and miss again, this one spinning me almost completely around to face the bar once more.  I can hear him laughing now, the sound grating on my emotions like sandpaper on bare skin.  My hand finds a bottle, thick-glassed and half-full.  I blindly swing one more time, furious beyond what I thought I was capable of.

            There is a heavy thud and pop that stop both the bottle and my whirling momentum.  My eyes take far too long to adjust but when they do, the man is no longer there.  I look around and see terrified faces.  I look down and see a man- the man- lying on the floor.  Blood is pouring from the side of his head and pooling around him.  I look at the bottle and examine the red stain on the corner.  I am in no small amount of disbelief that I actually hit him.  For the briefest moment, I feel triumphant at having accomplished what I set out to do.  But as I look at his ruined head, a terrible, sobering sickness uncoils in my gut.  A veil is lifted from my hazy vision and, though I am no doctor, every part of my terrified brain says this man is dead.

            A throaty growl makes me look up and see enraged bouncers lumbering and shouldering their way through the mass of people, intent solely on me.  The man’s friends follow suit, their sudden movements distinguishing them and allowing me to see the mixture of shock and anger that consumes them.

            The bottle becomes enormously heavy then and I drop it.  I take a step back, too afraid to do anything besides let instinct take over again.  A million thoughts tear through my mind at once- police, courts, prison, fear of vengeance, and pain being chief amongst them.

            I have but one chance, and that is to run.

Questions

What is objective truth?
Laws of science, religion, and culture
Change with each generation,
As easily as a person's mood.

In a universe where nothing is still,
Can anything truly be defined?

Question, so many questions,
Leaving nothing but more queries behind,
Each beckoning to the curious,
And those blind to the eternal scale.

Why do I try the possible?
Why will pride not allow me peace?

Is it better to be ignorant in bliss
Or to stare into the amoral soul of creation?
I cannot stop my yearning now,
For I have tasted the fruit of knowledge.

To turn away is naught but cowardice.
To submit is the path to despair.

Would I want to hold stars and sands
If such a fate is truly knowable?

Welcome to my island within the cosmos,
Where only the brilliant fool survives.

Quote of the Day- 06/16/2011

"On a Friday night, there's nothing I like better than cracking open a cool one and watching seventy two hours of brutal beatings and forced sodomy."
- Stephen Colbert

Nightwalker

Nothing is regarded with more dread
Than that which we cannot see.
When all rational thought does flee,
Only phantom and nightmare are in its stead.

The stinging stench of night's terror
Permeates chill air and smoldering soul
Gone is your illusion of control,
Boasts of courage made in knowing error.

Embrace the things you so horridly fear.
Wear cloying dark as victory's mantle.
You will find the shade's aegis most ample,
Even when the direst predators draw near.

So much of the world exists beyond sight,
So one cannot rely on the eyes alone.
That shadow's bounty has already been sown,
Waiting to be reaped by those who walk the night.

Quote of the Day- 06/15/2011

"I'd say that you were the perfect combination of imperfections. I'd say that your nose was just a little too short, your mouth just a little too wide. But yours was a face that a man could see in his dreams for the whole of his life. I'd say that you were vain, selfish, cruel, deceitful. I'd say that you were... Sibella." 
- Louis Mazzini

Quote of the Day- 06/14/2011

"Every compulsion is put upon writers to become safe, polite, obedient, and sterile."
- Sinclair Lewis