What happens when work is avoided, by cory, in the most passive way possible.
It was snowing floaty snowflakes and I walked out into the courtyard, or whatever you'd call it. It was a hole in a square building. It was mirrored plate-glass windows surrounding a few stumpy junipers. I was at some (east? Not east. I don't know where it was) High School for a debate trip and I was fifteen years old. Lindsay was off somewhere, wearing pinstriped pants and hating Hali, and I was, like always, alone--because that's what Lincoln Douglas meant. You were a solitary agent. No partner, for better or for worse. No marriage to some wheedling gay bastard or some prissy, vapid, heartlessly cruel policy girl. So I walked all over the place in utter solitude, listening to bad music and wearing bad clothes because I didn't have what I consider today to be good taste, yet, or if I did, I couldn't afford it.
I don't know why but I talk to myself a good deal whenver I'm alone, outside, whispering melodramatic, poetic musings and referring to myself in the first person but asking myself questions. I did in the courtyard, there, under the black sheet of gaseous winter pollutants that Salt Lake City considers to be the sky. Someday, then, I still thought Christ the Savior would part those hacking, heaving, Asthmatic clouds, and descend in righteous glory to rain splendor on all the wrinkly white men who he loved, in his stone temple where barbie doll women named Sundee and Cindee and Kylee marry ken-doll returned buzz-cut missionares named Blaine and Peirce and Nephi, in their strange white underwear, in the name of the Mormon God. That was my religion; I accepted it like a medical condition recieved at birth--I made the best of it, emphasized its positives, downplayed it's negatives, and constantly doubted it all with the cyclical passion and remorse of an addict. I wanted to worship wooden idols, even then, and follow the Buddha. I wanted to burn piles of incense and have burial rites where women tear out their hair. Call me heathen.
I hadn't the slightest clue I was winning, or losing. I confuse this memory. Twice I was at this high school. Once it was the greatest victory of my tiny mouse of a career, and once it was a whimperingly mediocre defeat. But both times, I knew nothing of my success until it was on me. I wanted nothing more than to go home, I wanted nothing more than for Lindsay to be "better." I still cared, I still worried, like a mother. She still called me saint Cory, back then.
I wrote this vignette because it rose up like a cold breaker out of ocean dark.
I don't know why but I talk to myself a good deal whenver I'm alone, outside, whispering melodramatic, poetic musings and referring to myself in the first person but asking myself questions. I did in the courtyard, there, under the black sheet of gaseous winter pollutants that Salt Lake City considers to be the sky. Someday, then, I still thought Christ the Savior would part those hacking, heaving, Asthmatic clouds, and descend in righteous glory to rain splendor on all the wrinkly white men who he loved, in his stone temple where barbie doll women named Sundee and Cindee and Kylee marry ken-doll returned buzz-cut missionares named Blaine and Peirce and Nephi, in their strange white underwear, in the name of the Mormon God. That was my religion; I accepted it like a medical condition recieved at birth--I made the best of it, emphasized its positives, downplayed it's negatives, and constantly doubted it all with the cyclical passion and remorse of an addict. I wanted to worship wooden idols, even then, and follow the Buddha. I wanted to burn piles of incense and have burial rites where women tear out their hair. Call me heathen.
I hadn't the slightest clue I was winning, or losing. I confuse this memory. Twice I was at this high school. Once it was the greatest victory of my tiny mouse of a career, and once it was a whimperingly mediocre defeat. But both times, I knew nothing of my success until it was on me. I wanted nothing more than to go home, I wanted nothing more than for Lindsay to be "better." I still cared, I still worried, like a mother. She still called me saint Cory, back then.
I wrote this vignette because it rose up like a cold breaker out of ocean dark.