Sunday, March 26, 2017

Part 3: The other voice

Once upon a time, while I was sleeping, a black cat fell onto my chest. 

I woke up screaming. You would have too, I believe. No one expects a black cat to fall onto their chest while they’re sleeping. At least not the first time it happens. After that first time, of course, it’s different. It is less of a shock and in time, can even become a matter of routine.

The human sternum can break under thirty pounds of pressure. The cat weighed twenty-eight pounds.

While it was happening, I did not know it was a black cat and I did not know it weighed twenty-eight pounds. I did not know my sternum might almost have been broken. Something big had slugged me in my chest while I slept was all I knew. That was enough.

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Part 2: A boy who killed some people

2015:

There were crepe myrtles alongside the house near the a/c condenser and they were nothing like the crepe myrtles out by the street. The leaves were longer, the flowers pinker, and the branches had grown up and out until they rivaled the height of the building.

Out front, on that plot of land some call a berm or a devil’s strip but for which I possessed no term, there were bushes of oval leaves and red flowers and the branches had only grown taller than me once, during the summer my grandfather died.

Mad Slaughter sucked at a cigarette that pointed straight out from her lips and every time she inhaled, she sucked in her cheeks like someone drinking an ice cream float through a straw. The pack on her back was threadbare camo she’d bought from the army surplus. That’s where the cool kids got their things.

She said, “I knew a boy who killed some people. I watched her watching the crepe myrtle – the big one by the house – and she knew I watched her but Mad was not the sort of girl to mind.

“He lived in the apartment next door to us.” She turned to meet my eyes. To gauge the impact of her story.

“He was doing the woman who lived upstairs.”

This story sounded familiar.

It was my story, too, or a mirror image of my own, at any rate, and as she went on, I searched for myself in it but I was not there.

Mad would have been eight, probably, when it happened and (presumably) living with parents of good enough sense to shield their young daughter from the gory details but somehow she knew it all.

I said, “You knew Stonie, too, huh?” and immediately regretted it. She broke eye contact. I had robbed her of her story.

The pink flowers each had five petals and they weighed down the branches and the landlord never cut them back in winter like he did with the ones out front.

She said, “This is oleander,” which explained why this crepe myrtle looked nothing like the crepe myrtles out front. The flower looked fine in her hair.

She said, “The thing about oleander is it’s poisonous. If a dog is unfortunate enough to eat the leaves, the dog will die. It happens sometimes.”

I watched her walking back to the house.

Poisonous leaves.

That explained the crickets. 



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Part 1 is HERE.

References from “Fascist Dyke Motors”:
- Mad Slaughter is the real name of a real person who first appeared in a 2014 Katy post called Adorable.”

- “That explained the crickets” refers to the death of some pets in a 2015 Katy post called A Murder Mystery.”

Sunday, March 19, 2017

Part 1: A true crime story

I would love to tell you a story now.

Murder puts in an appearance in this story – the one I want to tell you – and cuckolding, too, and the eating of drugs, to boot, if you can believe it. So it is quite the story. Completely true. I will tell it in parts, owing both to its length and to my own unfortunate state of pathological distractibility.

I will start it and then return to it from time to time until I’ve finished. I need to tell this the right way. I owe it as much, if that makes any sense, and I do believe it to.

This is the story I would love to tell you.

Sunday, March 12, 2017

We never saw it coming

Tiny cars are our problem. Tiny. Each car tinier than the last. Unnerving.

I see them in their smallness. Out in the streets. It is a wonder I do not crash my car in all my staring.

Question: How is it that a person – an average-sized human person with average-sized human hands, average-sized human legs, and a torso of sufficient dimensions to hold heart and lungs and gall bladder – could, with the laws of physics being what they are, fold into such a thimble?

Answer: They can’t. It simply cannot be done, the laws of physics being what they are. I have the charts to prove it. The grids. The equations. I have binder after binder of research. Affidavits from world-renowned geometricians.

It cannot be done and yet, driving down the road today (always down the road, for I have yet to witness one going up the slightest incline) I look over and into the next lane and I see a matchbox car with an average-sized human head poking up behind the steering wheel.

Impossible!

The head fills the entirety of the interior!

Hypothesis (though admittedly less than fully-formed): We are invaded. The invaders have come with their tiny cars and their (more or less) average-sized human heads with miniscule bodies. Or perhaps no bodies at all but mere tentacles sprouting just below the neck. Flagella, really.

Question: Have you seen a person, an honest-to-God human person, like your boss, your drug dealer, or your great uncle Charlie, climbing out from inside one of these tiny, tiny cars?

Answer: No, you haven’t. No, you won’t.

Tiny cars are our problem. An evil has arrived unnoticed. Perhaps – perhaps! – they have come from out in the stars or from some dimension a hair’s breath away or from inside the Earth itself, where they’ve been biding their time and waiting for oh-so-long.

Question: But waiting for what? 

Monday, March 6, 2017

Jamie and Adri


Two thousand eight was the year of Jamie and of Adri blogs. It was a time when Jamie was still my girlfriend. It was a time when there were still Adri blogs.

These things were important things, you understand, to me.

Many others enjoyed my Adri blogs but Jamie enjoyed them most of all, I believe, until finally, I found myself writing them just for her.

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

The astronaut

I will begin now by speaking to you of the view. To me, it resembles nothing so much as 1998, or at least how I remember 1998 looking. There was no tether in those days yet the view was very much the same.

I pray this analogy works, by the end. I, whose analogies so rarely work. In it – in this analogy of mine – I am an astronaut and you are all standing there in amazement, looking up, wide-eyed at my record-breaking feat.

At my spacewalk, I mean.

And this is the way that it always feels, exactly, for me, after a fourth day of sobriety. The distance between my spaceship and me, it’s so great now as to seem nearly as though I might never return. I will return. But with each of the moments that pass, it feels like pushing the record that much further.

Perhaps one more night!

Perhaps even one more night.

“In science news this morning, Harry Hamid has spent his fifth consecutive day floating in space outside his spaceship. It’s now his longest spacewalk since September 2014. Should he manage a sixth day, it would be his longest stretch since way back in 2009…”

I take these spacewalks of mine with one hand always on the tether. Firmly. See? On the tether. The cord that connects me to my spaceship.

My spaceship being a bottle in this analogy, it is supposed, and my great accomplishment not really an accomplishment at all to anyone but someone like me. Someone trying to remember what the view in 1998 looked like.

I am an astronaut. I am five days out.

Watch me go!

“Oooooh!” “Aaaaah!”