I Did Not Know You Are a Writer

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Human Capital - Deservancy & Becoming Worthy

Love is Amorphous, Love is a Shapeshifter

After traveling through many a galaxy and taking on a variety of forms, including therianthrope, he once again became all she needed. Him as her divine sustenance was his final transmogrification. “Life always happens on a Monday…” he belted out as he descended from the sky. It was just one of the many made up songs that he sang to her every time he reappeared out of thin air, always while falling out of the sky like money.

In his most recent form he had somehow reduced the amount of oxyhemoglobin in his skin and when their pale palms touched again for the first time in centuries, she grew languid while he waxed and waned. He glimmered like a hologram, his hope inside her. Oh, how she longed to possess the same abilities to metamorphose, so that she might become any and everything he ever wanted. She would do that for him.

He whispered lyrical incantations softly into her bloodied eardrums—sacred combinations of comedy/tragedy/pleasure/pain that had been handed down to him by those who came before him. Throughout time he had been many men; to her, and to others. His entire existence was a dance, with feet that moved wildly to the beat of every drummer. Rhythmic throes and gyrations meant to mesmerize the entire audience (population) but still, she managed to always feel alone in these clustered crowds, with a spotlight around her heart, his hope hard in her trembling tattooed hands.

In the beginning it was always them, and in the end, it will be them again. Lost and penniless, in trains and across oceans, stopping only briefly to glance at Austria, Greenland, Madagascar. They will be one and the same; beautiful imperfect beings, with his legions of followers trailing loudly behind them. So loud but she wont hear a sound. She wont hear a sound because her heartbeat will be in her face and because his love is fucking deafening. His love is lightning quick and deliberate, with sharp, powerful blows that will rain across her entire life until it swells shut, trapping him inside forever—so black and blue and tender.

Conflicting Messages

She stood motionless staring at his gravesite from across the small river. Although she was dressed in black, you could not tell if she was mourning because she did not shed a single tear. Besides, she always dressed in black.

A dusty cowboy appeared out of nowhere, startling her. “Did you know him?”, he asked.

“No.” she replied quietly, not taking her eyes off of the aging headstone.

A tumbleweed blew by, as did several awkwardly silent minutes. The cowboy cleared his throat.

“I, uh…my ranch is nearby.”

“Uh huh.” She continued to stare.

“Ma’am, look, I’m not tryin’ tah intrude on your business, but uh…well, I see you here every day.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you live close?”

She turned her head for the first time, facing him, with unblinking ebony eyes penetrating his of steel blue.

“Actually, I live a few hours away.”

A 5 Minute Study on Pretentiousness Followed by a 30 Second Observation on Corresponding Linguistics

It occurred to her, one lazy August afternoon, while sitting in Mariah Carey’s luxury penthouse apartment, that she was incredibly pretentious.

The pretentious one being herself, and not Mariah Carey, of course.

Careful not to be nosy or intrude on any personal space or belongings, she quickly scanned the room for spelling errors, of which she found none. Unsatisfied, she began to think of her bookshelf at home as a competitor against the one beside her, which she had not bothered to peruse for fear of being let down again.

Dostoevsky, Newton, Nabokov, Slim, Vian, Strauss, Kerouac, Zedd, Kraus, Lunch, Acker, Cooper, Rand, Miller, Nin, Vollmann, Baudrillard, Robbins, Plath, Virilio, Almond, Marx, Hitler, Guevara, Crowley, Bukowski, LaVey, Freud, Orwell, Capote, Vonnegut, Tolstoy, Flaubert, Foucault, Burgess, Kesey, Salinger, Levitt, Bataille, Sotos…suddenly, she began to feel very aware of how cliche she was…

She thought of all the pretentious movies she would watch with her friends, noting that they (the films) were pretentious and pointing out the parts that were the most. How would they know if they were not pretentious themselves? Surely Mariah Carey would not think the same things about the same things. For Miss Carey, things are probably in her head, or over it, not some strange place in between.

Her mind replayed a moment in which she watched Sasha Grey say, “I often wonder how many 18-year old pornstars are existentialists…”, while reliving that same feeling of disgust, only this time while facing a mirror instead of the VICE Magazine website on a computer monitor.

On Love and Empirical Romance

(How attitudes toward sex, love, and marriage in the Summer of 6th grade differ from those in the Summer at age 26)

She was 12, tan, thin, and flat-chested with long black hair and all the innocence of youth. He was 17, pale, tattooed, rode bmx, and was horny like most boys his age. He wasn’t her first boyfriend, but he was the first person with that title that she actually had a relationship with.

She was a virgin and probably didn’t even know the technical mechanics of sex. It was also a subject that she never thought about. It never even occurred to her to wonder what his penis looked like. She was just content to ride on his handlebars around their respective neighborhoods, talk on the phone about nothing, make-out for hours on end in front of all their friends, and hold hands at Pacific Beach. He, on the other hand, had invested months into trying to plants seeds of interest in that pre-pubescent little brain of hers.

He started by telling her “I love you.” every night on the telephone. Even at 12, she was already scared of love, or maybe didn’t quite believe in it’s existence and never said it back.