Soon there'll be nothing left of me.
Embroiled in an ideological cage match, the discussion of social barbarism and societal ills had more of an impact on me than I'd have let her know at the time, I'm sure. It's made a vortex in my gut which has managed to swallow every capability to be careful, caring, mindful. My bootheels seem to be grinding all the little flowers and I didn't even realise I'd strayed into the garden.
Of course, on the way I met with beauty and tried to decipher these ancient languages by speaking them into her skin. Two days, angelic chorus rattling my composure and shaking away years of dust until I could get a full breath. I wanted to be lost there, never move away without a mind to return, slipping just out of sight long enough to create the fondness of absence. I didn't want to go, but a letter from my agent that we'd finally secured a meeting I've been wanting for months wrote my ticket for me. When she left, she was resplendent, benevolent, eyes wet but not as steely as I'd anticipated. I had a flutter of hope, then a roil of hopelessness when they iced over as she slipped through the gate. I tasted metal all the way home, chain smoked and drank to chase it away. I knew there was a mistake made. Just wasn't sure which of several was the killing blow.
Panic ensues.
The flight is a blur, a tangle of grunted surface interaction and fitful sleep. Raise my head and tip back the mask to see the very superhero film I'd have paid not to see at that moment, pull the mask back down and reach a well-trained hand to my inside jacket pocket to pluck out the pills I'd tried not to take to flatten the line as much as possible. Dry swallow. And again. And again. Nothing, at last.
The meeting crawls, but the news is good. I can't believe I got this job. The drive to the hotel room is cinematic, palm trees and sunshine betraying my dour mood and blowing that little black cloud to vapour. Maybe none of it was a mistake, not a bit of it. No, I'm certain of it. I must have been imagining things, caution turning to paranoia. I'm smiling when I check in, whistling when I get changed, humming when I climb into the taxi. I meet up with this mad geisha of a girl and we tromp around overgrown graves looking for our silent film star. We find her, take rubbings, laugh a lot and suddenly stop, wondering if she'd appreciate it or not, two curious ghouls laughing over her coffin. We decide that we would, and so would she. A bite to eat, an invitation to meet her and some friends at her show that night. Fond adieu.
I keep my mouth shut tight the whole way back, afraid to waste a word before I can tell her everything, tell her she must see this sky before it bruises up, take fucking shots on the camera phone I've never used for anything but calls before. I'm overtired, elated, more than a little wired on obnoxiously strong coffee. I can hardly dial on that vintage hotel phone, still out of breath, but I finally get it done.
A torrent. I can hardly form words, a siren in the back of my mind and I can't focus on anything. She's livid and I can't make out why. And I can hardly keep down this rising bile and my throat is burning and I think she's asked me a question. I take the pause and what comes out of my mouth, I still can't get hold of. Furious lines striking like black mambas, every old wound opening up to feed the rage. Fuck you for not understanding, for icing over on me, for stepping on my back to get over the fence of losing that ungrateful little motherfucker and fuck you for those sighs, those lies, those jabs of divine light, and fuck me for falling for it. I can't hear her over the pulse thudding in my ears and then there's this wiry hum. It takes me several seconds to work out that it's a dial tone and I can't smash the phone down hard enough, but I keep trying.
I'm peeling myself off the bed to get that fucking phone alarm to stop wailing at me. A glance in one of too many mirrors makes me shiver and I make my way to the shower. I can't remember the last time I took such care to get myself together, but I stepped out razor sharp and went to that show, and backstage afterwards. King for a night, she never let me down for a second. Scent, sight and sound. And now there's silence lulling me to sleep.
So I'm in LA.
Of course, on the way I met with beauty and tried to decipher these ancient languages by speaking them into her skin. Two days, angelic chorus rattling my composure and shaking away years of dust until I could get a full breath. I wanted to be lost there, never move away without a mind to return, slipping just out of sight long enough to create the fondness of absence. I didn't want to go, but a letter from my agent that we'd finally secured a meeting I've been wanting for months wrote my ticket for me. When she left, she was resplendent, benevolent, eyes wet but not as steely as I'd anticipated. I had a flutter of hope, then a roil of hopelessness when they iced over as she slipped through the gate. I tasted metal all the way home, chain smoked and drank to chase it away. I knew there was a mistake made. Just wasn't sure which of several was the killing blow.
Panic ensues.
The flight is a blur, a tangle of grunted surface interaction and fitful sleep. Raise my head and tip back the mask to see the very superhero film I'd have paid not to see at that moment, pull the mask back down and reach a well-trained hand to my inside jacket pocket to pluck out the pills I'd tried not to take to flatten the line as much as possible. Dry swallow. And again. And again. Nothing, at last.
The meeting crawls, but the news is good. I can't believe I got this job. The drive to the hotel room is cinematic, palm trees and sunshine betraying my dour mood and blowing that little black cloud to vapour. Maybe none of it was a mistake, not a bit of it. No, I'm certain of it. I must have been imagining things, caution turning to paranoia. I'm smiling when I check in, whistling when I get changed, humming when I climb into the taxi. I meet up with this mad geisha of a girl and we tromp around overgrown graves looking for our silent film star. We find her, take rubbings, laugh a lot and suddenly stop, wondering if she'd appreciate it or not, two curious ghouls laughing over her coffin. We decide that we would, and so would she. A bite to eat, an invitation to meet her and some friends at her show that night. Fond adieu.
I keep my mouth shut tight the whole way back, afraid to waste a word before I can tell her everything, tell her she must see this sky before it bruises up, take fucking shots on the camera phone I've never used for anything but calls before. I'm overtired, elated, more than a little wired on obnoxiously strong coffee. I can hardly dial on that vintage hotel phone, still out of breath, but I finally get it done.
A torrent. I can hardly form words, a siren in the back of my mind and I can't focus on anything. She's livid and I can't make out why. And I can hardly keep down this rising bile and my throat is burning and I think she's asked me a question. I take the pause and what comes out of my mouth, I still can't get hold of. Furious lines striking like black mambas, every old wound opening up to feed the rage. Fuck you for not understanding, for icing over on me, for stepping on my back to get over the fence of losing that ungrateful little motherfucker and fuck you for those sighs, those lies, those jabs of divine light, and fuck me for falling for it. I can't hear her over the pulse thudding in my ears and then there's this wiry hum. It takes me several seconds to work out that it's a dial tone and I can't smash the phone down hard enough, but I keep trying.
I'm peeling myself off the bed to get that fucking phone alarm to stop wailing at me. A glance in one of too many mirrors makes me shiver and I make my way to the shower. I can't remember the last time I took such care to get myself together, but I stepped out razor sharp and went to that show, and backstage afterwards. King for a night, she never let me down for a second. Scent, sight and sound. And now there's silence lulling me to sleep.
So I'm in LA.