|
Cerebral Contents: Update for 05.13.08: Backsliding by Cynthia Ruth Lewis 05.05.08: Five Feet and Building by Joel Van Noord Grocery Aisle by Richard Lighthouse Cross the Road by Ashok Niyogi 04.29.08: The Modern Covenant by Daniel E. Wilcox Death by Onions by Michael Frissore 04.21.08: Future's Children by Kimberly Raiser Identity Theft by George Anderson A Great Deal of Money by Justin Hyde 04.14.08: Mr. Papaya and Dale by Eric Suhem California by Caroline Imreibe Aftermath of Vehement Argument #1,068 by Cynthia Ruth Lewis Trip-Hammer Vitality by Lisa Nickerson 04.07.08: The Florence of Basel, or Why Readers of Nietzsche Need to Read Burckhardt by Jeff Crouch Friends of the Poet by Sean C. Bowen Picture Perfect by Leah Baldwin 03.24.08: Staring Down a White-Tailed Doe by Aleathia Drehmer 03.17.08: The Hairbrush by Vernard Kennedy Dog Days of Winter by Niall Berkeley Poem From My Grave by Michael Lee Johnson Mashed Potatoes and Hamburgers by Matt Finney 03.10.08: Hard Work by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal Jetty Cake Pigs by J.D. Nelson |
My Darlings "You must kill all your darlings." I remember what Brother Faulkner said. Brother Faulkner was a wise boy. I have just changed from work, out of my prim proper pleated silk suit that now lies crumpled on my floor. I put on old faded jeans where the butt is all but worn out and a plain T-shirt; looking like a complete slob, but feeling like a woman. I feel like eating, so I turn on the TV to see what looks good to me. Hmm. Maybe a hamburger, but I make a salad because it has less fat. The less fat I eat, the less to work off at the gym in that never ending pursuit for the perfect body. Why do I care to be thin? I am killing all my darlings, so I eat a whole pint of Ben and Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk right out of the carton. I feel sick to my stomach, but there is a certain price for my liberation. I turn off the TV and turn on the radio, and I listen absent-mindedly, although I know all the words. I'm sure I would not know all the words if I actually thought about them. I sit down on my perfectly white manicured couch and I wipe the excess chocolate from my fingers like brown crayolas across the pristine cushions. The new smudges make me smile, and I feel like I have discovered the hidden myth of modern art. I kick my feet on to the coffee table and a pile of paperwork falls to the ground. The bulk of the papers falls with a thud, while stragglers float earthward like plucked feathers. I just close my eyes and run my fingers through my hair, combing out all thoughts of my fifth floor office with a window and a view. I begin to leaf through a magazine. A scantily clad blonde puckers her lips as if she is teasing something outside the page. I've decided that I hate models, especially blonde ones, but I'm not going to let them intimidate me or set my standards anymore so I turn the page. There is some quiz about stress levels that I pass by. I read the advice column. I secretly believe that the editors of these magazines make up the questions and answers themselves, knowing that readers would never admit that they have these problems. Editors are not dumb, they know that readers eat this shit up... that is they like to read about people more pathetic than themselves. I laugh out loud at a woman's lament of her husband's lack of performance in bed. The advice, talk to your partner, perhaps there is some deep psychological reason that he can't perform but can be solved by honest discussion. Yeah right, we all know that talking doesn't do a damn thing but stamp out all the embers of a mood, and honesty is a fire extinguisher. Face it lady, you need a new man. And I get up and run to the bathroom to puke because I've eaten too much ice cream. My toilet is filled with blood, but I take no notice because I've seen it all before. The raw salty tingling of my throat makes me feel tough, like a real badass, so I strip off my shirt, which is also stained with streaks of blood. Flush! I am killing all my darlings. On my way to the bedroom I pick up the magazine once again. I leisurely stroll through my apartment in my jeans and bra feeling elegant like an old Marilyn Monroe pin-up. Ceremoniously I flop to my bed, now aware that my head is throbbing behind my eyes like little jackhammers on my optic nerves. But I continue to read the magazine anyway because I want a little pain to find poetic justice. I think of sister Sylvia, poor unhappy sister Sylvia. "Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it very well." If she only killed all her darlings, like I am, she'd be alive. But a part of me is glad she is dead because I need a martyr and she needed the infamy. And I wonder, is this blasphemous? I am aware that my answering machine is blinking in a silent fury and I must release it from the troublesome talk of my acquaintances. The machine hisses like a harassed snake to rewind the tape. A loud beep and then my mother is talking and then my dad. Blah, blah, blah, and congrats on my promotion, blah blah, mom planted new azaleas and blah, blah... and Dad says he is proud of me, and so is my mother. A tear falls, but I suppress it behind the safety of the next beep. Ned from the office, something about meetings, he can't handle everything, bitch and moan, big fat hairy deal with mayo. The next beep comes and stings like like the barbed tail of a sting ray. " A pretty girl naked is worth a thousand statues." At first I think it is e.e. himself, cummings that is, but I know the voice and in one delirious fit I am frightened, angry, hurt, anxious, happy, and pissed off all in one instant. My body goes into emotion overload, and I shake and quiver in ripples from the inside out. So I smack my face and get a grip, and tell myself that I am still an attractive girl. I feel the need to rationalize, but before I do I remember my mission. I am killing all my darlings, damn it. So I put on my leather jacket without even putting on a shirt and I run out of my apartment to my little red Japanese-import-rip-off sports car. I speed along the road like a race car driver laughing wildly and hooting at the sky because it was the right thing to do. Windows open, my hair streams all about me like a thousand mini tornadoes. And I love it and sing along to "Shake the Disease." At a stoplight I smear lipstick on, a lush, come fuck me red and I throw the rest of the tube out into the street. Somehow, I arrive at my destination but I can't remember when I turned on this particular road and got to this particular place. So I look to see if this is where I want to be, and it is so I get out of the car and slam the door real loud just to be a jerk. Somewhere between the car and the front door I become paralyzed by my own self doubt and I can't knock at the door. I stand in front of it like a pathetic girl scout hocking cookies to little wrinkled old couples who buy six boxes of shortbread. I begin to panic and I remember that I am not wearing a shirt but I am wearing pointed black boots like a witch and I feel like my hair has all at once turned green. My ears perk up and I listen for another female voice but I hear none. Now I'm consoled and quit feeling like some sort of demonic fury. I sigh, but still cannot open the door. I turn to leave, but somehow, that doesn't happen because the door opens and wham it's him and I get the cursory, "Hey baby." There is a fight in my body between the badass and the girl scout and
I am somewhere in limbo and when I snap out of it I realize that we are
on the couch and my jeans are on the floor. I wonder how they got there
but I soon forget because he is kissing me. Between his lips and his tongue
massaging mine I grip the last shred of my reality. I remember why I came
here and now I feel like Sparkle Eyes Barbie, so I sit up ant I yell,
But he doesn't stop because he likes what he is doing, and he thinks I should like it too because he's doing it to me. He asks me, "Have you been scarfing and barfing again?" But he notices that I do look good, that I have been to the gym, and he wants me so he tries twisted compliments. I try to stop myself from being slightly flattered and at the same moment get intensely irked because he gives me credit for having the mind of a paper doll, flat and one dimensional. I got some depth, baby and I intend to show you. He is no exception. So I get up and go to the fridge and get a beer. He wants to know what the hell I am doing and I find him amusing. I told him I am a praying mantis and the time has come to eat my mate. He smirks at me and I smirk back and together we look like two spoiled children in a candy store greedily drooling over the pieces of candy the other has. He strokes my short coffee-colored hair to calm me down and tells me how pretty I would be if I was blonde. So I smack him across the face as a reflex action and dump the rest of my beer over his head just to see it run over the etched, but not perfect features of his face. So he picks me up and carries me off to his bedroom like some heathen
"I AM NOT YOUR DOLL I HAVE A MIND AND A SPIRIT AND I AM NOT YOUR SLAVE TO DO WITH WHAT YOU WISH AT YOUR EVERY WHIM AND FURTHERMORE I WILL NOT TOLERATE TO HAVE YOU SITTING ON TOP OF ME WHEN I NEED TO BRUSH MY GOD DAMN TEETH!" I said everything in one breath and my lungs deflate like unused bagpipes. I want to get up, and I can now, as he carefully got from on top of me and inched cautiously across the bed. His face wrinkles up and creases like the leather of a worn shoe. I was to see that he was confused like I once was, until Brother Faulkner talked to me. So I throw the closest book to me at him and tell him to listen to what was being said. And I walk into the bathroom and brush my teeth with his orange Oral B tooth brush. I swish mouthwash around and it stings like getting your mouth washed out with soap. So I saunter out of the bathroom, conscious that I am still wearing my leather jacket but no jeans. I walk into the living room where he was sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the TV. "Are we going to talk about it?" he asks. He chokes down his concern and waits to accept the answer like the score to a close football game where he might lose a bet. "I don't need you and I don't want you. So this is goodbye, and I know you'll miss me when I'm gone." "You'll miss me too." "I'll miss you like a ratty old dog," I said harshly. I really don't like dogs, dependent and servile as they are. Then, in a tone of authority more than bitterness, "Don't take it personally. I'm killing all my darlings." I pick up my jeans that were lying next to the couch where he sits, and
leave without even putting them on. I go back into my little red turbo
car and rev it up. I turn off of the street and on my way to go to Brad's.
Maybe on the way I'll call Ned and tell him where he and the company could
go with all the anal worries and concerns. I'll call my parents just to
say they are great and they won't be able to believe how good I sound.
Then I'll go to Brad's, get some good loving, and then take him out with
the rest of the trash. I look and feel like crap and it almost feels good,
like a nice, worn out sweatshirt. I'm getting all the old junk out of
my system, cause it brings me down. Peeling down the layers till I get
to what is good. It is spring and I'm cleaning house. Posted 05.16.05 |
Emergent Properties: Archives (alphabetical) Links - Updated 05.05.08 Books - Updated 05.05.08 |
Site founded May 7th, 2003,
by Project Catalyst.
All written material is the copyrighted property of its respective authors.
All other elements can be blamed on the Cerebral Catalyst Editorial Board.
