Stream of Consciousness

The Last Goodbye

I lean back into my seat. On the coffee table, a sprawl of napkins, coasters, and untouched drinks. Alcoholic, of course, because I’m in the bar again. Always the bar. I don’t even drink in real life, yet all these scenarios and conversations take place in the same bar.

From here, I can see Mackie and Anderson at the bar talking up some bird about their latest endeavors. And I don’t mean that in any derogatory way. They’re literally talking to a bird whose owner, a stage performer, is busy chatting up one of the headlining acts. A magician by the looks of it. The poor beast – the bird not the magician – looks unsettled by the words spilling form the mouths of demons. And I wonder where’s Chrysanthemum is at the moment.

“She’s picking her teeth in the restroom,” they say, settling in the seat across from me.

Again with the androgyny. Neither male nor female. A mix of best parts of the two. They’re wearing a blazer. Hair parted to the side. An undercut showing a road map of tattoos depicting the birth of the universe by the snap of their fingers.

“How did you know what I was thinking?” I ask.

They give me a quizzical look and smirk. “C’mon, are you still so surprised by that gift. On the one hand, all-knowing deity. On the other, a figment of your imagination you turn to whenever ever you’re having one of these – what do you call it? – crisis of disbelief?”

“Something like that,” I respond.

“And anyway, who the fuck cares? Now you called me,” they say taking a drink before spitting it back into the glass. “Jesusfuck, what the hell is this?”

“Grape Kool-Aid.”

“You ordered me grape Kool-Aid? Why?”

“It’s my imagination, isn’t it?”

“You existential, pseudo-philosophical dipshits.” They wipe their mouth with a napkin, crumpling it and setting it inside the glass to soak up the wine. Because, apparently, I can do that. “Now why did you call me here?”

I start before pausing. In the corner of my eye, I see her stepping out of the restroom. She turns and gives a dissatisfied look at her comrades and their new pet. The stage performer and the magician have disappeared. She turns to face me, lifts a knowing eyebrow, turns on her heel and heads out the door.

“I don’t need you anymore,” I say.

“You breaking up with me, kid? In a public place? Isn’t that a bit too cliche? Do you think I’m really the type to make a scene?”

“You are because you’re me. And I don’t need you anymore.”

“You sure about that?”

I nod.

“Well okay,” they say, getting up and buttoning their blazer. “But I’m talking the boys with me.”

“Of course, you have to.”

“It’s a Thanos-snap away, kid. Have you thought about this?”

“No,” I say. Because it’s the truth.

“Okay then,” they say and snap their fingers.

It happens to the bird first. Neither Anderson or Mackie seem to notice. Or care. Not even when they too begin to dissolve into nothing. The last words uttered from their mouths – “Cheers” – as they lift their glasses in no general direction until they’re nothing. One by one, they all begin to dust away, not noticing that they’re being erased from existence.

“I can’t say that I’m proud of you kid, but,” they begin, “this has been some ride. May the next one of me be more – I don’t know – benevolent or some shit.”

“See you around,” I say, standing up as my chair and the rest of the bar dissolve.

“No,” they smirk. “You won’t.”

And they’re gone too.

I turn and she’s standing there. “You ready, kid?”

“I’m older than you,” I say.

“If you say so.”

We begin to walk, her steps fall alongside mine.

“‘Where to now?” Chrysanthemum asks.

“I’m thinking a bookstore. That’s more my scene.”

In the distance, a figure stands. Clad in black. A relic from another time. They crack their neck. Neither man nor woman. And smile spreads across their black lipstick stained mouth.

“It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”

Stream of Consciousness

“my own world of make-believe”

“You ever get tired of being this way kid?” his voice mocks me. “You ever just want to quit?”

“Why quit? We’re just getting started.”

The smoke of burning rubber fogs the empty street. In the distance, their taillights are swallowed by the void. They’ll come back. They always do.

“Yes, whenever you need them most. Other times, you have me.”

“I don’t believe in you,” I say.

“And yet, here I am.”

“Where do we go from here?” I almost expect an answer.

“Where do any of us go?”

I close my eyes and I can hear the Billie Ellish song playing somewhere in the night. When we fall asleep, where do we go?

“I like this song,” he says. “C’mon, kid, let’s go get a drink.”

With a snap of his fingers, we’re standing in a tavern. Barmaids bustle drinks about. Women in stilettos strut on a catwalk. Hooting and howling men, chomping on cigars, cackle at obscenities whisper-shouted over the cacophony of music and glasses clinking.

“Tell me about it, kid,” he says, holding up two fingers to the bartender. “What brings you back to me? What sort of – what did you call it? – crisis of disbelief bring you back to me?”

“I’m still trying to make sense of it.”

“It’s rudderless, kid. Without plan. Without consequence.”

The roar of a 1960 Cadillac convertible turns into the parking lot outside. He nods his head, as if noting that they’re right on time. He continues, “Here’s point where the moment of truth comes, kid. Outside, your demons wait for you. Inside, you talk to a fictional character you personified whenever you’re confused.”

“I think he’s inside, Anderson,” Mackie shouts. “He ain’t out here that’s for sure.”

“Leave him be,” replies Chrysanthemum. “He’ll come out whenever he’s ready.”

“The verdict,” I begin, but he cuts off my words.

“Rudderless, kid.” He shakes his head, downs the two shots set before him. “You have to move on.”

“And what about…” I trail off.

“Kid, if you’re unsure how she feels, how the fuck am I supposed to know?”

“But aren’t you…”

He’s gone. The bar. The barmaids. The stiletto girls. Just dark. Quiet. Except for the roar of the engine.

“You coming?” Anderson asks.

“C’mon,” Cassie adds impatiently.

“I always wondered why I created you four.” Always wondered what parts of me each of them represents. Mackie and Anderson, the violence and anger buried deep inside me. But what role do the girls play? Chrysanthemum, the lustful? Cassie, the impatient?

“Not every thing has to be psychoanalyzed,” says Chrysanthemum. “We’re just who you turn to when you need to make sense of something. You grew us from nothing. Just fictional characters you embodied demons in. We used to be just a thing you did, until you made us into something more. All this is you.”

Mackie? Gone. Anderson? Gone. Cassie? Gone. It’s just me and Chrysanthemum in all her nakedness. She walks circles around me, her hand brushing my shoulder ever so often. She lifts her long, polished nail – red, of course – against my cheek and leans in close, her lips closing in on mine.

“I am the person you once thought you were. The person who only looked out for himself. But you were never that hard. Never that cold. You shut off the world because you thought it was the only way to keep yourself safe. Letting others in made you vulnerable. And,” she laughs, “I guess you were right. You shouldn’t never had opened yourself to that pain. Because what has it gotten you? Where has it gotten you?”

“Hush,” I say.

She moves back, the Cadillac door opens and she gets into the car.

“You’re wrong about me.”

“Am I?” And she too has gone.

Doldrums

Listening to demons

God sits at the end of the bar, nursing the strongest whisky he can muster. Boozed breath evaporates sobriety the moment I walk into the place. God isn’t a man, though he prefers the male pronouns. He isn’t a woman, either. He isn’t much of anything. Just an idea that we all have regardless if we believe in him. He is a state of gender confusion. The gray tinge between what’s binary and what lays beyond my comprehension. 

I’ve spoken to him several times in the past, but speaking to god is like speaking to the void. It offers nothing in return to your confessions. Offers not consolation to your misery. Creates more questions than it does answers. 

He pulls a bar stool out with his free hand while nursing the drink with his other. “It’s been a while, kid,” he says. “Thought you almost forgot about me.”

“It’s been a while,” I agree. “I haven’t had a crisis of disbelief in a while.”

“It rarely goes the other way,” he sniggers. “Take a seat, kid. You’re making me nervous.”

“I don’t plan on staying.”

“Sure. Sure.”

He peers at me through his peripherals. He scans me, reading the creases of my face like a hand on Braille. He pulls the last of his whisky and sets the glass down on the hard wood. He wipes his mouth with the back of his coat’s sleeve. “If we’re doing this,” he continues, “then I guess we should be doing this correctly.”

“If everything is part of your plan, I need to know why. I need to know how any of this plays out. I need to make sense of it all, because it’s been months and I can’t for the life of me understand how something like this happens.”

Getting up, he shakes his head. There’s that smirk again. That infuriating smirk. “That’s not how it works.”

“Then explain it to me. I need to know.”

“You, of all people, understand that no one steers the ship. That it’s rudderless.”

“They were my family. They were my friends. He was just a child. You didn’t even give him a fucking chance. Explain to me how that’s benevolent.”

It’s crushing. The whimpers that escape my lips as I speak. He places a hand on my shoulder, forces me backward. “You act like you’re the only person who’s lost anyone. Think about the others who lost more than you. Ever think about them for a second? Ever wonder what hell they’re going through? He lost his son. He lost his wife. Just like that—” he snaps—”and she lost her mother, her sister, her nephew. Do you ever see past your own grief to understand the hell they must be going through?”

And he’s gone. 

The lights decorate the houses of the neighborhood. It’s Christmas, but it doesn’t feel like it. I’m partly bitter because of all the shit going on at work. Mostly, it’s the adjustment of life after the accident. It’s adapting to the new normal. It’s the marking down court hearings on my calendar of events. It’s worrying about who’s going to take of Shaun next summer while both Jeanna and I work. 

A beat up, 1960 Cadillac convertible speeds by. Its occupants frozen in a permanent state of youth. It swerves, colliding with the light post farther down the road. The world goes dark. A low rumble vibrates beneath my feet. Cracks in the asphalt, the pavement, and earth stretch out. I try to run, but it’s useless. The world devours me. And I fall. Deeper and deeper. And before the world pinholes, I see his face looking down at me. His words echoing as I’m engulfed. It’s rudderless.

I come to. The world is a shade of gray. My fall was broken by the mountains of bodies of those I loved and those I’ve lost. Those I hated and those I’ve fucked the pain away with. Those who took up chapters in the book of my life, and those who will remain footnotes.

I move to get up, but their hands take hold. They pull me down. Wrapped themselves around me. As I cling to whatever leverage I can, a hand reaches down for me. Grips my wrist tight, and pulls me out.

“Shit,” he says. That voice. That smile. Those eyes. “You’re lucky that we found when we did.”

“Who?”

He turns back, shouting towards the figure in the distance. “Hey, Anderson, I found him.”

“Anderson?” My eyes go wide. They haven’t aged a bit. Cassie and Chrysanthemum dig themselves out of the mass graveyard. And the four surround me, looking down upon me. Each of them smiling. 

“Missed us?” one of them says.

“Oh boy,” Mackie smirks. “We’re not done with you yet.”

I speak to ghosts like one would a higher power. But sometimes, just sometimes, it’s the demons that come out to hold communion. And I’m powerless against their whims. I look up at them and shake my head, “It’s about fucking time.”

The End.

Personal

Within All

Please

For C.N. — I’m not exactly sure what you’re going through, but I wanted to share a few words with you.

How do they keep at it like this? All that jabbering,
When just breathing the humid air feels like drowning.
There are so many good things in life I’ve overlooked.

There are times when silence feels like our only friend. Like a vacancy consumes our hearts and our minds cannot fathom a reasonable explanation for the darkness that seeps through the cracks of our cerebellum. And we claw at the wall in hopes to find sure-footing so that we may one day escape the prisons we built for ourselves. Where being alone seems to heal all things and ease all things. And within all things we may find nothing but disappointment in ourselves because we’re not good enough. We’re not perfect enough to love. That we deserve what we’re given and should accept it as a noble truth.

We don’t have to speak. Not a word shared between us in confession or in contrition. Because my words cannot bring you comfort anymore than you can. Because, in the end, every one must bear the burden of his own sins and every person must be the fabricator of their own salvation, that not even a god can do for us what self-help in the form of self-conquest and self-emancipation can accomplish.

We are the twin verses. The sacred truths. We are the light and darkness in each other. For anger breeds anger, hatred breeds hatred. Joy breeds joy and love breeds love. And I have lived through both. I have seen my hands cause pain and I felt my heart take delight in such pain. And I have seen my hands bring peace and I felt my heart take delight in such peace. Let us be like the bright gods, and feed off the happiness.

I once asked you not to apologize to me. Apologies are not a sign of weakness, they are a sign of strength. And strength shouldn’t be taken so lightly. Apologize for the things done within your control. Apologize for the words spoken in anger or the slap that escapes your hand.

I’ve done some terrible things in my life that I can never apologize for. That I cannot take back. I let the anger and hatred fester in my heart and I have seen the tears spilled for me. Tears that are worth more than the cost of my existence. And for years, I lived in anger. For years, I didn’t think of the feelings of others. And for years, I abused and misused those who were unfortunate enough to love me. And each time I did, an apology escaped my lips. An apology that wasn’t worth a pound of truth because I never learned from the mistakes I made.

And for this, I do not deserve the apologies of others. Because these are the demons I carry with me. These are sins that burden me each day. And until I can right these wrongs, I do not want to hear a word of apology spoken to me.

I created a set of rules and a code of morals and ethics for myself. Guidelines spawned from common sense and various religions and social contracts. I have carved my own buddhism, my own christianity.

With everything, within all, there is hope. There is light. There is peace. There is love and there is solace. And one day, I hope to share it with those I love most.

Just a quick note: I wrote this entire post while listening to this song—your recording—on a continuous loop. It just felt right.
Doldrums

An Interview with God (A Rough Draft)

The person sitting in front of me—this person who is enjoying a luke-warm cup of Earl Grey (with a generous squirt of honey, but passing on the lemon wedge), while our barista sets down a marbled sliced of cheesecake—isn’t what I imagined. Though, I can’t say what I imagined. Or who, for that matter.

“Expecting a long, wisely old beard and a toga?” the person asks, reading my mind. It takes some getting used to, I admit. However, it isn’t very long before this person—what gender pronoun can I even use here?—continues, “Neither and both. Considering the consensus of the religiously”—air quotes—“astute in this country, you may call me him. But no capital ‘H.’ I hate that shit.”

After a sip of his tea, he adds, “Call me God, Logos, or Prometheus. Any name will do, actually. Given the opportunity, which I’ve had several times in the past, I’d call myself Lloyd. Can you imagine that, though? Going to church—if you went to church that is—and reciting, ‘All praise be to Lloyd, who all things obey?’”

Lloyd, God, Logos, Prometheus stands no taller than five-six in platform boots. His frame is feminine and thin, with slight muscular undertones which is visible beneath the skin-tight, long sleeve shirt he wears underneath a blazer. He is garbed in black with facial piercings, resembling a person who listens to the lyrical genius of Dani Filth than Amy Grant. He takes a ginger forkful of the marbled cheesecake in front of him, and makes a face when the taste registers on his tongue.

“The things you people put into your bodies,” he says taking a drink. “I’m sure Luci is going to get the rap for this one, as well.”

“Who?” I ask.

“As in Fer. Lucifer,” he laughs. “Satan. The Morning Star.”

“So he’s real, too?”

“Oh, you’d better believe he’s real, too.” He stink-eyes the cheesecake, makes a move for it, before retracting back into the lean of the sofa chair he occupies. “He’s not too bad,” he continues, “Satan. Gets a bad rap for what’s written in the second half of that book. He’s a pussy cat, really.”

“So original sin, Job, and all the end times?”

“I’ll give you Job, but he was only doing what I hired him for,” he answers. “When I found ol’ Luci, he was stuck in some middle management job over the Betelgeuse sector…” He pauses and looks me over, smirking. “Yes, Heaven is all encompassing the entire universe, not just the earth as some of you”—air quotes—“astute religious leaders believe. When I designed the big bang, I had this plan to spread out as far as possible and create as much as possible, but I couldn’t be everywhere—yeah, I said it—so I started up a franchise and hired a bunch of angels to do my bidding in the other sectors.”

“So is ours the center of the universe?”

“Of course, not. We’ll get there shortly, however,” he takes a drink of his Earl Grey and makes for the marbled cheesecake once again. After a grimace and forced swallow, he opines, “That’s me awful.” Continue reading “An Interview with God (A Rough Draft)”

Doldrums

Normally, I Use Lyrics for a Title, but Nothing Worked for This Post

Someone, sometime ago, decided children speaking in baby talk is cute. I beg to differ. If a child is too old to speak with a mock speech impediment, then it’s not cool. Besides, what does that say about a person with the actual, no-fooling impediment? Homophobic dating service, eHarmony is now running an ad featuring “Caroline,” Neil Clark Warren‘s, the founder, supposed granddaughter. The girl’s obviously too old to be speaking like a toddler, but the advertising team thought it was worth a swing. Usually, I’m not disgusted with ads with children talking about adult world things–eTrade’s baby, voiced by comedian Pete Holmes, is downright adorable and hilarious. And dubbing Dennis Haysbert’s voice over a little girls for an Allstate commercial? Gold. At least they didn’t have her talking like a goddamn moron. What’s a little more unnerving about the eHarmony commercial is that the little girl knows way too much information on her teacher’s romantic life.

Exhibit A
Exhibit A

Moving on. While we’re on the subject of idiot’s, I’d like to make a statement that posting these “inspiration” hipster photos with quotes floating in the air, doesn’t make you deep. Whenever I post something like this, it’s usually something funny. Or something that strikes me as truth, or wise, or interesting. It’s never a shield. Never an “adult” way of saying, “I’m rubber and you’re glue so what you say bounces off of me and sticks to you.”

Monica posted something in the lines of this thought, so I won’t rehash that post (nor steal it). It’s just that people who post this sort of thing have the worse personalities. Rather than owning up that they’re just dicks or bitches, they become the Vancome Lady. And not only that, they also hide behind their religion to justify their dickheadedness, posting messages and status updates with declarations such as, but not limited to, “It doesn’t what you think of me. The only opinion that matters is God’s.” Yeah. God called me and he wanted me to relay a message: You’re a bitch with religion, doesn’t make you better than anyone.

And if you post anything stating something negative about your ex, I can assure you that you think of him more than he thinks of you. And that’s just sad.