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At the dinner party - and first of all, I am really handsome, I"m having a good day for appearances and I look great - but at the dinner party, the theme is punch and we are told a lot about the origins of punch, which is India, like zero and chickens. I have an nice time that's just brief, but then there are points where I do not enjoy myself. There is that one insufferable girl and then later the founder of the party and another guest are having a whispery side-bar and I say that they have to include me and they do to explain that they likewise cannot suffer that lady and then I don't understand why they've invited her at all, but I'm told it's because of how there is friendship with her husband and I say that he is worst of all then, because he married someone insufferable so he has done the crime of pollution.
They ask me- will your girlfriend come to get you? And I say, well. No, but in a manner of speaking because I do love the RTA, probably more than I have ever loved a girl that I have loved. And I'm a little sad to think of it. There are so many candles at the dinner party, and there is a painting, that I painted, it's framed and hangs on the wall at the house. In a sincere way I think of myself as being okay. I love things and have judgements. We smoke cigars and I have 4 or five types of traditionally prepared punch and then I have to leave to catch the last bus or walk six miles, but in the end I catch the last bus but not before having a conversation about bus-violence and bus-driver antipathies with the other man waiting on the last bus of the night.
Yesterday, on the bus, or at the bus stop anyway - at the stokes station - which is not the Main Stokes station at Windermere, but the little one by the children's museum and the statue garden, there, I am playing Pokemon Black - I finally evolved the zweilous to a Hydreigeon which was hard but I finally did it and I'll have that memory at that bus stop to make me happy. I am on my way home from work. I'm waiting on the same bus that I end up waiting on tonight. I'm back to yesterday though and I have solved some Pokemon problem that I don't even really care about but I have done it. I take the bus up the hill and then go into my house and it is in disarray and I take a shower and shave and change clothes and get ready to go out - I go out, I catch the bus again and it's the same driver, he doesn't recognize me.
I wear a beautiful and hideous paisley shirt, a crushed velvet dinner jacket, and indifferently pressed slacks, black- with frayed up cuffs because I am tall and do not have cuffs put on my pants. I wear a tie that I once, long ago, used to wear when it was going to happen that I would fire someone. I have not worn this tie in a long time but I feel good about it and myself and appearance. People comment to me and I feel good. I read more of Norman Mailer's version of the Egyptian afterlife on the bus and then on the train. I take the train across town, under the earth, through tunnels and the city and then get off at the opposite end and walk to a bar where the publicized book club invented by my friend will be held. There, I make a lot of conversation with strangers and talk with erudition and cleverness.I have some beers and am good company and much beloved by all attending. I make good impressions and act properly. I tell stories that engage people and they tell stories back. I get into a long discussion about pornography with an underemployed librarian and we comment on the different disparities in represented agency in the graphic portrayal of sex over time. I point out that in old timey porno that personal agency would be represented by clothing and that you could watch to see that the men would always begin more dressed than the women, but that in contemporary porno there is none of that, no one has any identity outside of genital-vehicle, objects, they are objects. I do not make a judgement about this, I only have this talk. It is a good talk. We exchange books and my friend, who guessed at my attendance brought a book about the classes and history of infinity because he is a good friend and then we talk at length about twin peaks and the Prisoner. The bar is very crowded and for cigarettes I end up talking to the piano player who cannot understand that I might hate Billyjoel and promises to play more of him, not grasping that I hate Billyjoel. I talk learnedly about books and recommend useful books to people, and know they will be happy.
I'm on the west side where I never go so I decide to go everywhere I might go. The bar that used to be the metal-bar where I used to be allowed to drink for free because of being a VIP and lovely is having a show it is poor, I go inside and it is not great, I drink a budweiser because that is all they have and then I leave and without scorn but also without joy. Then I go to the friendly old dive where there is another band that covers Janis Joplin(? probably?) and there is a man who was in Fuckbeast, I can't keep them all straight there were so many. I talk to him and it is nice, but I decide that I want it to be not that nice and touch his face when I speak to him and he is worried, he has an expression of fear and love. I am curious about his life and talk to him for a while, he does not stop me from touching his face because he probably knows that he can't and doesn't know how to say anything to me about what I am doing. Because I have a terrible presence (?) Then I talk to old millworkers about stephen king and then I go to leave because I will now dance at the gothic bar because I decided to. The man, whose face I kept touching, he buys shots, I drink them up and don't care and laugh. I am having a great time, everyone around me seems happy and worried. I go out of the comfortable old dive and there's a girl going in who I used to fuck. She is with a man so I don't try to be too familiar because I try to encourage people to have love if I think they're suited to it. I liked every part of that girl but did not love spending time with her, because that is how I am. If I like to have sex with a person then it means that I probably don't like to spend time with them, and backwards equivalent for spending time and fucking. If I touch your face and have a long conversation with you it means that I won't have sex with you. I guess. I am learning these things about myself as I go. I hug this girl and she seems afraid to see me and this man she is with, they are both so small and fragile looking, they're bare in the cold and weather, it's a bare, barren day here. It is dark and cold and they shiver and look so, so small. I feel that they could stand, either of them, in either of my hands and I'd let them stand and not drop them, because I am not wicked. Though I am troubled? After the spring, when there are leaves on the trees I sometimes do the trick of taking a leaf and putting in it, my soul, because I have one and not everyone does, but I do, and I put it in this leaf and then I know that that night nothing bad can happen to me because I put my soul in the leaf but it isn't spring yet, really and there are no leaves and I feel... Bare. I am bare like a nerve without skin, the broken tooth. I am jagged and can be killed by a regular bullet.
I think about what it was like when I used to fuck that girl, and it was usually from behind and she would grunt, really hard and bite and buck ferociously, she was tremendous. I'd sometimes put my thumb in her asshole so that I could feel inside of her what it felt like that my cock was going inside of her vagina, I would do that and she would grunt and cum really hard and I would feel like my thumb would be bitten off and then... then she would look at me longingly, this is after, and then I would know that there would be an ending between us because I do not care for longing looks. I am told, that it is surprising, that the surprising thing about me is that secretly, inside of me, I am sad. This is strange and I think maybe true but also, I am very happy.
At the dinner party we are told to state our names and a reason we are happy. I say, when my turn comes, that I am happy because it is senseless not to be. But still, maybe deep inside of me I am not happy.
I dance a lot at the gothic bar, the owner is almost in tears to see me again after so long, she feeds me shots and I dance, we drink, her and I and I have an uncomfortable feeling that she wants me to touch her face or at least have sex with her or talk to her about the things that make her who she is in herself. I dance instead and get more drunk and there is no one there, but maybe four people. We all dance and then outside there is a courtyard which has a fence of wooden slats and once, in a rage, but a happy one, I took the slats in my hands and by accident I pulled them apart so the fence is broken where I once had a feeling of love and joy, I broke it in half, because I am formidable (?)
The other people are shy and gothic and mentally-ill seeming or too unattractive for me to be interested in. I text message some ladies that once told me they loved me to see if they care about dancing.
Earlier, at book club there are fragile eyed girls who seem lonely and beautiful, but only because they seem fragile and lonely, I let them touch my velvet jacket and they are cheered.
In the end I want to catch final busses, so I leave, it is after midnight, but not very early. I take the bus into downtown and stand in the cold waiting for another there are a lot of people smoking outside the casino. I stare at the moon and yell at the gamblers across the street and then take the bus all the way back to the stokes station, where earlier I'd evolved my zweilous to a hydreigion and then I walk up the two mile hill through the sculpture garden but I stop in the garden to pee on a tree, I blend into the tree all dark and hiding. I know that people say that you have to beware these places after a certain time of night and I'm satisfied that I am probably a reason why people have such fears. I walk home and it is cold as ever, it is really cold and my hands freeze and I hate everyone that has a car or drives, but there are not many of them and I have that feeling that comes where it seems that the world is over and is just me, it's just me and I don't see the skunks that I sometimes see, and I don't see any animals but I know they are all around me and I am glad because I have an atavistic sense of my own bestial compulsions. Then I remember that I have language and notice that I am growling. A man comes running and he is not dressed for exercise, he is running away from something, but it is the direction that I am going and I don't find any problems. I find my house that's disheveled and then I walk down the hundred foot hallway at my house that is completely dark because this is a main part of my day where I walk down the dark hallway in the dark and it is always perfect and unsettling, the long hallway that really is, no bullshit, a hundred feet long and there is no light or window and I feel like I am going into something terrible, and the terrible thing turns out to be my fucked up room that is dirty because I have been secretly unhappy and so not tidy. But I go to sleep anyway and sleep.
In the morning I'm eager for the taco store to open so I can have tacos because I am starving, and then I have a second lunch after I watch the avengers for a second time and then I read in the bathtub for probably hours and then I go down the street to the dinner party and I am civilized and pleasant and dismissive with opinions that are not based upon things like how much sex I would think of having with a person.
And then I come home and can write, after all the cigars and snuff and cigarettes and the lavender flavored bread and the tea-infused punches and the many, exotic tastes of many exotic lands and long stories that are about nothing.
I come home to type and and think and maybe even sleep. Even though there are animals, all of the animals all around me. I can hear them and they are everywhere. But not once did I think that there is a thing I shoud do that I did not do except that I linked my daughter's nintendo to mine so I could give her the Hydreigeon that I'd evolved for her as a present for getting good grades. ````
They ask me- will your girlfriend come to get you? And I say, well. No, but in a manner of speaking because I do love the RTA, probably more than I have ever loved a girl that I have loved. And I'm a little sad to think of it. There are so many candles at the dinner party, and there is a painting, that I painted, it's framed and hangs on the wall at the house. In a sincere way I think of myself as being okay. I love things and have judgements. We smoke cigars and I have 4 or five types of traditionally prepared punch and then I have to leave to catch the last bus or walk six miles, but in the end I catch the last bus but not before having a conversation about bus-violence and bus-driver antipathies with the other man waiting on the last bus of the night.
Yesterday, on the bus, or at the bus stop anyway - at the stokes station - which is not the Main Stokes station at Windermere, but the little one by the children's museum and the statue garden, there, I am playing Pokemon Black - I finally evolved the zweilous to a Hydreigeon which was hard but I finally did it and I'll have that memory at that bus stop to make me happy. I am on my way home from work. I'm waiting on the same bus that I end up waiting on tonight. I'm back to yesterday though and I have solved some Pokemon problem that I don't even really care about but I have done it. I take the bus up the hill and then go into my house and it is in disarray and I take a shower and shave and change clothes and get ready to go out - I go out, I catch the bus again and it's the same driver, he doesn't recognize me.
I wear a beautiful and hideous paisley shirt, a crushed velvet dinner jacket, and indifferently pressed slacks, black- with frayed up cuffs because I am tall and do not have cuffs put on my pants. I wear a tie that I once, long ago, used to wear when it was going to happen that I would fire someone. I have not worn this tie in a long time but I feel good about it and myself and appearance. People comment to me and I feel good. I read more of Norman Mailer's version of the Egyptian afterlife on the bus and then on the train. I take the train across town, under the earth, through tunnels and the city and then get off at the opposite end and walk to a bar where the publicized book club invented by my friend will be held. There, I make a lot of conversation with strangers and talk with erudition and cleverness.I have some beers and am good company and much beloved by all attending. I make good impressions and act properly. I tell stories that engage people and they tell stories back. I get into a long discussion about pornography with an underemployed librarian and we comment on the different disparities in represented agency in the graphic portrayal of sex over time. I point out that in old timey porno that personal agency would be represented by clothing and that you could watch to see that the men would always begin more dressed than the women, but that in contemporary porno there is none of that, no one has any identity outside of genital-vehicle, objects, they are objects. I do not make a judgement about this, I only have this talk. It is a good talk. We exchange books and my friend, who guessed at my attendance brought a book about the classes and history of infinity because he is a good friend and then we talk at length about twin peaks and the Prisoner. The bar is very crowded and for cigarettes I end up talking to the piano player who cannot understand that I might hate Billyjoel and promises to play more of him, not grasping that I hate Billyjoel. I talk learnedly about books and recommend useful books to people, and know they will be happy.
I'm on the west side where I never go so I decide to go everywhere I might go. The bar that used to be the metal-bar where I used to be allowed to drink for free because of being a VIP and lovely is having a show it is poor, I go inside and it is not great, I drink a budweiser because that is all they have and then I leave and without scorn but also without joy. Then I go to the friendly old dive where there is another band that covers Janis Joplin(? probably?) and there is a man who was in Fuckbeast, I can't keep them all straight there were so many. I talk to him and it is nice, but I decide that I want it to be not that nice and touch his face when I speak to him and he is worried, he has an expression of fear and love. I am curious about his life and talk to him for a while, he does not stop me from touching his face because he probably knows that he can't and doesn't know how to say anything to me about what I am doing. Because I have a terrible presence (?) Then I talk to old millworkers about stephen king and then I go to leave because I will now dance at the gothic bar because I decided to. The man, whose face I kept touching, he buys shots, I drink them up and don't care and laugh. I am having a great time, everyone around me seems happy and worried. I go out of the comfortable old dive and there's a girl going in who I used to fuck. She is with a man so I don't try to be too familiar because I try to encourage people to have love if I think they're suited to it. I liked every part of that girl but did not love spending time with her, because that is how I am. If I like to have sex with a person then it means that I probably don't like to spend time with them, and backwards equivalent for spending time and fucking. If I touch your face and have a long conversation with you it means that I won't have sex with you. I guess. I am learning these things about myself as I go. I hug this girl and she seems afraid to see me and this man she is with, they are both so small and fragile looking, they're bare in the cold and weather, it's a bare, barren day here. It is dark and cold and they shiver and look so, so small. I feel that they could stand, either of them, in either of my hands and I'd let them stand and not drop them, because I am not wicked. Though I am troubled? After the spring, when there are leaves on the trees I sometimes do the trick of taking a leaf and putting in it, my soul, because I have one and not everyone does, but I do, and I put it in this leaf and then I know that that night nothing bad can happen to me because I put my soul in the leaf but it isn't spring yet, really and there are no leaves and I feel... Bare. I am bare like a nerve without skin, the broken tooth. I am jagged and can be killed by a regular bullet.
I think about what it was like when I used to fuck that girl, and it was usually from behind and she would grunt, really hard and bite and buck ferociously, she was tremendous. I'd sometimes put my thumb in her asshole so that I could feel inside of her what it felt like that my cock was going inside of her vagina, I would do that and she would grunt and cum really hard and I would feel like my thumb would be bitten off and then... then she would look at me longingly, this is after, and then I would know that there would be an ending between us because I do not care for longing looks. I am told, that it is surprising, that the surprising thing about me is that secretly, inside of me, I am sad. This is strange and I think maybe true but also, I am very happy.
At the dinner party we are told to state our names and a reason we are happy. I say, when my turn comes, that I am happy because it is senseless not to be. But still, maybe deep inside of me I am not happy.
I dance a lot at the gothic bar, the owner is almost in tears to see me again after so long, she feeds me shots and I dance, we drink, her and I and I have an uncomfortable feeling that she wants me to touch her face or at least have sex with her or talk to her about the things that make her who she is in herself. I dance instead and get more drunk and there is no one there, but maybe four people. We all dance and then outside there is a courtyard which has a fence of wooden slats and once, in a rage, but a happy one, I took the slats in my hands and by accident I pulled them apart so the fence is broken where I once had a feeling of love and joy, I broke it in half, because I am formidable (?)
The other people are shy and gothic and mentally-ill seeming or too unattractive for me to be interested in. I text message some ladies that once told me they loved me to see if they care about dancing.
Earlier, at book club there are fragile eyed girls who seem lonely and beautiful, but only because they seem fragile and lonely, I let them touch my velvet jacket and they are cheered.
In the end I want to catch final busses, so I leave, it is after midnight, but not very early. I take the bus into downtown and stand in the cold waiting for another there are a lot of people smoking outside the casino. I stare at the moon and yell at the gamblers across the street and then take the bus all the way back to the stokes station, where earlier I'd evolved my zweilous to a hydreigion and then I walk up the two mile hill through the sculpture garden but I stop in the garden to pee on a tree, I blend into the tree all dark and hiding. I know that people say that you have to beware these places after a certain time of night and I'm satisfied that I am probably a reason why people have such fears. I walk home and it is cold as ever, it is really cold and my hands freeze and I hate everyone that has a car or drives, but there are not many of them and I have that feeling that comes where it seems that the world is over and is just me, it's just me and I don't see the skunks that I sometimes see, and I don't see any animals but I know they are all around me and I am glad because I have an atavistic sense of my own bestial compulsions. Then I remember that I have language and notice that I am growling. A man comes running and he is not dressed for exercise, he is running away from something, but it is the direction that I am going and I don't find any problems. I find my house that's disheveled and then I walk down the hundred foot hallway at my house that is completely dark because this is a main part of my day where I walk down the dark hallway in the dark and it is always perfect and unsettling, the long hallway that really is, no bullshit, a hundred feet long and there is no light or window and I feel like I am going into something terrible, and the terrible thing turns out to be my fucked up room that is dirty because I have been secretly unhappy and so not tidy. But I go to sleep anyway and sleep.
In the morning I'm eager for the taco store to open so I can have tacos because I am starving, and then I have a second lunch after I watch the avengers for a second time and then I read in the bathtub for probably hours and then I go down the street to the dinner party and I am civilized and pleasant and dismissive with opinions that are not based upon things like how much sex I would think of having with a person.
And then I come home and can write, after all the cigars and snuff and cigarettes and the lavender flavored bread and the tea-infused punches and the many, exotic tastes of many exotic lands and long stories that are about nothing.
I come home to type and and think and maybe even sleep. Even though there are animals, all of the animals all around me. I can hear them and they are everywhere. But not once did I think that there is a thing I shoud do that I did not do except that I linked my daughter's nintendo to mine so I could give her the Hydreigeon that I'd evolved for her as a present for getting good grades. ````
