Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Excerpt from "False Furniture"
My father lived in his childhood home for the six years before he died. There had been multiple marriages, bastard offspring, and elaborate manifestos on the cruelty of human experience prior to this period of time, all of which I was a vague breathy part of. We didn't bother to talk much even when, by some kind of internal obligation, both of us decided to meet up over fried foods and stiff drinks. The two of us always enjoyed getting drunk together, almost as if we had gotten good at forming the habit separately, before testing it out on each other with mixed and foamy results.
In that same vain, I didn't know what else to do other than solemnly gulp after winded toasts from my father's remaining connections at the wake. I was the only one of his children present, invited by his lawyer, a former high school track star named Yancy, who was also a known sex offender. Needless to say, the two of us didn't discuss much other than fees and signatures, before carrying on with our intended life purposes.
I was twenty-nine, single, and mindlessly at a loss back in my hometown. My parents had gotten divorced when I was fifteen, following an elaborate three-week period of fondling Holly Walden in her mother's office/gym. I couldn't help but express some visible signs of disappointment then when my mother screamed variations of abuse and mental rape, soon packing all of my bags for me. I thought about Holly for the subsequent three months of transitioning that followed, before meeting a long-haired brunette named Leona in my algebra class. I spent the next fourteen years of my life getting toned and stoned, working in claustrophobic spaces, finding gray shades of lust and inspiration. Nothing had much of a bearing on my life as I learned to sink deeper into crawl spaces and top dresser drawers.
However, despite all of my adapted perceptions, I couldn't help but lose myself upon opening the chipped yellow door to the house where my parents would stick me on weekends when swinging reached a plateau above cliche. The fixtures carried with them the same dusty screen, the familiar stale aroma of my dead grandparents now complimented by that of my father. Dad had left his imprint on the space; dirty dishes filling the sink and counter tops, glass ash trays and empty bottles reflecting low wattage. Bags of trash lied dormant in the kitchen amongst crusty pizza boxes from monthly coupon deals previously. The fridge was covered in clever post-it reminders all of which made no logical sense to me as I shuffled through phrases like "Glory be to J.D." and "Rocket fuel for the chronic soul."
I tried to pay such seemingly insignificant words no mind as I searched for unpaid bills and tiny keys to unlock aged keepsakes. There were bonds purchased for christenings and empty birthday cards with my name scribbled beneath the the fine print in lock boxes. I collected what meaning I could, taking multiple trips to offices and Goodwill, trying to decipher what it meant for such a man to be living, and deteriorating in that house for longer than necessary.
However, my questions remained pleasantly unanswered as I called off work for five days straight before deciding it wasn't worth the effort of dialing anymore. I lounged in the remaining filth, finishing off the last sips of bottles before lazily buying my own. I took staggered walks around town, watching a fresh generation of fuck-ups rewind and replay the same games in slow motion. I listened to scratchy vinyl and sorted letters to random faces that I had either met once and forgotten about, or who my father had saved me the pain and anguish of an introduction to.
I cleaned up messes before crafting my own. I closed blinds and lied to my mother, before turning my cellphone off completely. Fears of cancer and coughs filled my mind as I tried to decipher any sense of logical closure or composure from an individually placed list of material objects that offered little insights into the previous six years in both our lives.
It was on a Sunday when Yancy called me with the name of a realtor and some final paperwork. I told him to keep the business card of the bloodsucker safe and away from me. I would be staying indefinitely.
In that same vain, I didn't know what else to do other than solemnly gulp after winded toasts from my father's remaining connections at the wake. I was the only one of his children present, invited by his lawyer, a former high school track star named Yancy, who was also a known sex offender. Needless to say, the two of us didn't discuss much other than fees and signatures, before carrying on with our intended life purposes.
I was twenty-nine, single, and mindlessly at a loss back in my hometown. My parents had gotten divorced when I was fifteen, following an elaborate three-week period of fondling Holly Walden in her mother's office/gym. I couldn't help but express some visible signs of disappointment then when my mother screamed variations of abuse and mental rape, soon packing all of my bags for me. I thought about Holly for the subsequent three months of transitioning that followed, before meeting a long-haired brunette named Leona in my algebra class. I spent the next fourteen years of my life getting toned and stoned, working in claustrophobic spaces, finding gray shades of lust and inspiration. Nothing had much of a bearing on my life as I learned to sink deeper into crawl spaces and top dresser drawers.
However, despite all of my adapted perceptions, I couldn't help but lose myself upon opening the chipped yellow door to the house where my parents would stick me on weekends when swinging reached a plateau above cliche. The fixtures carried with them the same dusty screen, the familiar stale aroma of my dead grandparents now complimented by that of my father. Dad had left his imprint on the space; dirty dishes filling the sink and counter tops, glass ash trays and empty bottles reflecting low wattage. Bags of trash lied dormant in the kitchen amongst crusty pizza boxes from monthly coupon deals previously. The fridge was covered in clever post-it reminders all of which made no logical sense to me as I shuffled through phrases like "Glory be to J.D." and "Rocket fuel for the chronic soul."
I tried to pay such seemingly insignificant words no mind as I searched for unpaid bills and tiny keys to unlock aged keepsakes. There were bonds purchased for christenings and empty birthday cards with my name scribbled beneath the the fine print in lock boxes. I collected what meaning I could, taking multiple trips to offices and Goodwill, trying to decipher what it meant for such a man to be living, and deteriorating in that house for longer than necessary.
However, my questions remained pleasantly unanswered as I called off work for five days straight before deciding it wasn't worth the effort of dialing anymore. I lounged in the remaining filth, finishing off the last sips of bottles before lazily buying my own. I took staggered walks around town, watching a fresh generation of fuck-ups rewind and replay the same games in slow motion. I listened to scratchy vinyl and sorted letters to random faces that I had either met once and forgotten about, or who my father had saved me the pain and anguish of an introduction to.
I cleaned up messes before crafting my own. I closed blinds and lied to my mother, before turning my cellphone off completely. Fears of cancer and coughs filled my mind as I tried to decipher any sense of logical closure or composure from an individually placed list of material objects that offered little insights into the previous six years in both our lives.
It was on a Sunday when Yancy called me with the name of a realtor and some final paperwork. I told him to keep the business card of the bloodsucker safe and away from me. I would be staying indefinitely.
Monday, April 6, 2009
The Good Christian Girl Finds Sin
She first found sin in the bathroom stall, scribbled in dirty blue and black ink. The words were familiar although not overwhelming enough to turn her attention away from the printed pages and imitated stained glass. She had her prayers memorized, asking for a bigger bedroom and a baby brother routinely every night before bed. Sometimes she would talk to Jesus out loud as if he were sitting in the rocking chair next to her dresser, or tiredly scrubbing the dust and dead mosquitoes from her windowsill.
They were more than just imaginary best friends with priceless little secrets resting on their tongues like communal wafers. She felt his overwhelming presence on every sunny and rainy day, and it made her feel more than just happy to be alive. The girl was a beacon of joy and wonder.
By the age of thirteen shifts occurred, first with her collared father's nicotine habits, and then her mother's spending. The thirty-six-year-old wife with long slender legs and cherry hair started buying various pieces of fine art, scaled down to size and tacked with inspirational and highly irrelevant bible quotes. The girl began to notice the blankness in all of the saints' eyes as she passed them in her upstairs hallway. They were either too excited over being martyred or too vacant from long walks around in circles, pretending to listen. She asked Christ what was lacking in these well-respected artists' renderings, but he claimed to be too busy. "Ask again later" he would sigh, like a runny magic eight ball.
The girl started to become irritated with his lack of concern. Jesus was acting far too human and less than divine. She soon began to drift like her grinning classmates, folding their hands and kneeling out of habit instead of purpose. Genuflecting became like walking the dog around the block every morning, carrying plastic bags for the brown remains. She was coming to the realization of how utterly dulled down each and every one of her movements were. They were no longer solely for her humbled piece of mind, but rather some understated good that the girl was no longer seeing any benefits from. Self-preservation soon descended into the spectrum of her thoughts as both her parents argued over scheduled details and fine print.
It was at this time, amongst the overwhelming catcalls and gossipy entrails of her fellow students, that the girl bought her first set of headphones. Drowning out the sound of her own thoughts as well as the audio larceny of others was the sanest act the girl could think of doing, soon using her father's personal computer to illegally download translucent hymns to fill the void. Love became an exaggerated concept, but nevertheless one that the girl could still find some vague understanding of, as pop music readily consumed her free moments.
An addiction then started to grow for sparkly publications full of airbrushed pin-ups with toothy smiles. The girl was particularly fond of a young heartthrob named Fin. His rebellious glare and fuck-all attitude made her want to touch herself; an act that systematically worked itself out every Wednesday evening when her parents left for couple's therapy. The girl would usually feel seasick following her hourly dabs in impurity, and yet couldn't bring herself to stop. She would anxiously wait each and every week for the rumbling click of the garage door; her father's exhaust pipe releasing smoke that rivaled the knowledge of a thousand modern Edens.
And she would feel smart and centered by the end, before casually apologizing to the ghostlike remains of her faith, and completing her final arithmetic problems. The first few stains would be heartfelt, before their subtle accumulation made the girl wonder. Was anyone even bothering to notice her mistakes anymore?
They were more than just imaginary best friends with priceless little secrets resting on their tongues like communal wafers. She felt his overwhelming presence on every sunny and rainy day, and it made her feel more than just happy to be alive. The girl was a beacon of joy and wonder.
By the age of thirteen shifts occurred, first with her collared father's nicotine habits, and then her mother's spending. The thirty-six-year-old wife with long slender legs and cherry hair started buying various pieces of fine art, scaled down to size and tacked with inspirational and highly irrelevant bible quotes. The girl began to notice the blankness in all of the saints' eyes as she passed them in her upstairs hallway. They were either too excited over being martyred or too vacant from long walks around in circles, pretending to listen. She asked Christ what was lacking in these well-respected artists' renderings, but he claimed to be too busy. "Ask again later" he would sigh, like a runny magic eight ball.
The girl started to become irritated with his lack of concern. Jesus was acting far too human and less than divine. She soon began to drift like her grinning classmates, folding their hands and kneeling out of habit instead of purpose. Genuflecting became like walking the dog around the block every morning, carrying plastic bags for the brown remains. She was coming to the realization of how utterly dulled down each and every one of her movements were. They were no longer solely for her humbled piece of mind, but rather some understated good that the girl was no longer seeing any benefits from. Self-preservation soon descended into the spectrum of her thoughts as both her parents argued over scheduled details and fine print.
It was at this time, amongst the overwhelming catcalls and gossipy entrails of her fellow students, that the girl bought her first set of headphones. Drowning out the sound of her own thoughts as well as the audio larceny of others was the sanest act the girl could think of doing, soon using her father's personal computer to illegally download translucent hymns to fill the void. Love became an exaggerated concept, but nevertheless one that the girl could still find some vague understanding of, as pop music readily consumed her free moments.
An addiction then started to grow for sparkly publications full of airbrushed pin-ups with toothy smiles. The girl was particularly fond of a young heartthrob named Fin. His rebellious glare and fuck-all attitude made her want to touch herself; an act that systematically worked itself out every Wednesday evening when her parents left for couple's therapy. The girl would usually feel seasick following her hourly dabs in impurity, and yet couldn't bring herself to stop. She would anxiously wait each and every week for the rumbling click of the garage door; her father's exhaust pipe releasing smoke that rivaled the knowledge of a thousand modern Edens.
And she would feel smart and centered by the end, before casually apologizing to the ghostlike remains of her faith, and completing her final arithmetic problems. The first few stains would be heartfelt, before their subtle accumulation made the girl wonder. Was anyone even bothering to notice her mistakes anymore?
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