It’s been a while since we talked.
So, we talked. Caught up.
It’s rough out there. I know.
And then you say: “He’s wonderful to me.”
I think of all the things going on in my life, all the bullshit and frustration and worries and… and…
It’s nothing. Just knowing there’s someone there, treating you so well, being so good to you.
Well, I can feel all that stuff just wash away.
I know it’s not really gone. It’s all still there.
But just hearing those four words, knowing that…
We’ll catch up again soon.
I look forward to it.
Tag: second life
The Magic of Music
I came upon a grassy meadow
Massive human hands
Raising violin bows
Like magicians’ wands
Notes rose from the grass
Like dandelion seeds in the breeze
Rising… Rising…
Fading fading vanishing
I could not see any strings
The hands remained still
I heard music all around
A voice: “Music is the magic of life.”
I sat, watched, listened
I think of it again, and smile
The shadows grew long
I thought about heading back home
It’s still out there, that meadow
Where it is, I do not know
I’ve never come across it again
Closing my eyes, the magic returns
We Talk
I know it’s impolite to do so, but we talk about you behind your back.
Literally. We stand right behind you and talk about you behind your back.
Oh, you can hear us back here?
What if we whisper. Like this?
Still hear us?
Well, I guess that defeats the purpose of talking about you behind your back if you can hear it.
Maybe if you would lean against a wall and we can talk about you on the other side of the wall?
That’s not the same?
Well, at least our conversation puts your back up against the wall.
The Tyrant
The Old Tyrant yells “Load the carriage faster! I need to escape before-”
Shouting! Beyond the gate!
A mob from the city, surrounding his castle.
“Guards! Protect me!” he yells.
The guards run out through the gate to meet the crowd.
And then, they rush back, closing the gate and blocking it.
From the outside.
“They won’t let you leave,” said his assistant. “They want you to stay on as ruler.”
“But I’m tired of running this country!” the Tyrant whined. “Don’t they want democracy? Freedom?”
“No. They want prosperity. Stability. You provide that.”
The exhausted tyrant wept and screamed.
She Sparkled
I saw the strangest thing in the paper today.
The theater critic reviewed a local production of Shakespeare and was unsparing in their attacks on one of the actors.
Despite the slowness and awkwardness of the venue, the set design did get praise.
But what was most curious was their gushing praise for a local performer of renown, going so far as to say that they sparkled, not just in the play, but everything they did.
They were in the audience, not in the play.
I’d tell you who said this, but they’re just a critic: nobody remembers their names.
Blue Skies
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Cindy looks up at the sky and scowls at the hideous shade of green.
“Blue skies, please,” she says, and the scene vanishes for a moment before rendering again, this time with blue skies.
She brings up a catalog of clouds, cycles through her favorites, and tosses them into the sky.
“Drift,” she says, and the clouds begin to slowly roll eastward.
She got halfway through the forest before the power spike wiped out her simulation.
She checked her settings.
No auto-save.
The skies boiled red for an hour before she regained her composure.
And started again: “Blue skies, please.”
De-inspiration
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Inspiration means to breathe life into a creation.
But what happens when you want to take that part of your life back?
Especially when your creation wants more, and is sucking the life out of you?
Always waking up breathless, needing to do more.
No more.
You step back, close your mouth, and hold your breath.
Your creation begins to turn blue and suffocate.
It begs for air. It begs for life.
“I need it more than you do,” you think to yourself.
It’s hard to watch your creation die.
And once you kill it, you feel empty yet again.
Skin Contract
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Awake at 4. Itching, scratching.
The rashes are unbearable.
One more week until my skin contract’s up.
The free ones are nothing compared to expensive designer skins, but with the contract, you get a discount on those.
I look in the mirror. Hideous bags under my eyes, wrinkles like canyons across my face.
And rashes.
Last time, I cheaped out. Ever since, it’s been dermatologist appointments and oceans of cosmetics.
Yak butter creams? Tungsten wire therapy?
I won’t make that mistake again.
I put on my happy-face, the porcelain doll-mask with the vacant, vapid stare, and head to the kitchen.
Diegoland
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Think about the name Champion Valiant.
You have to be pretty ballsy to pick a name like that, right?
Close your eyes and think for a moment what that guy would look like.
Flowing dark hair.
Suit of armor and wide shoulders.
Big, really big sword.
No, all it takes is a big heart.
Big enough to share all the music, the art, the storytelling, the architecture, the culture and the spirit of the city of San Diego.
When that city burned, the city that didn’t support Diegoland, he raised funds for the victims.
That is a true champion valiant.
The Key
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Every morning, the windup girl feels the turning of the key in her back.
She awakens, opens her eyes.
“Mistress,” she says, and smiles.
Mistress strokes her cheek, says the nicest things.
And, her eyes are… red?
She’s been crying again.
Windup girl wants to cry too, but she cannot.
“Mistress,” she says, “Need a hug?”
Mistress wants more, and soon, the windup girl’s clothes sit folded on the edge of the bed with Mistress’s.
“Fuck me,” she whispers.
Windup girl pulls out her key, places it on Mistress’s thigh.
Mistress smiles as windup girl’s eyes grow heavy and close.