vindication in syndication (and gratuitously gratified)
...in my experience the best time to cheat is before the game begins, but what is it that compels us to compete with each other, even when our goal is each other?
...is it that we are of a kind?...predators...bored with easy kills, who live for the hunt and not the killing and eating of our prey...or is it fear of becoming each others prey, or are we just practising for the inevitable...
...and it often is inevitable, charming conversation runs dry, awkward silences become less awkward and then like clockwork, you become mechanical animals moving closer, an intricate and unstoppable machine geared for one purpose...
...it was a humid summer evening about a year ago, when two casual aquaintences stepped out onto the balcony of a pool hall for a cigarette only to find that biochemical spark that only two people of opposite sex may share...
...it lasted but a moment, but it was a moment of clarity...before years of drama with our own sexuality caught up with us, and we realised that some bridges were irrevocably burned...a sudden down pour in the streets below sealed our fate to stay there that night, and make peace with our respective others of significance...
...and a complex series of chain reactions that followed, culminated last night when i was forced to buy crappy coke from a weed dealer, and shitty weed from a coke dealer...
...but we're not at that part of the story yet, it's still high noon with two gunfighters squinting at each other across some broad street on the frontier, palms twitching over the hilts of their pistols, ready to draw and unwilling to let their guard down...
...it's probably why so few westerns end with the gun fighters throwing down their pistols, and making out with each other behind the saloon...but then again, so few romantic comedies begin with gratuitous gun play...and the less said about sex in the science fiction genra the better...
...at some point it becomes more about the ritual...waiting those few ominous seconds before those first few innocent pebbles trickle from their pretty pink slip onto the glass...then slicing through them with an expired credit card, coaxing them into neat little lines across the plane, except for those few stubborn flakes hiding among the numbers...
...distilled anarchy channled through a paper cylinder, merging with your own inner demons...
...that first one is always a hideous mess, insufflation is never second nature, but the second one hits the sweet spot, and if she's a dirty girl, she'll burn you a little to remind you of the danger...then you catch a glimpse of your reflection starring back at you through a vanity mirror, scratched and scuffed...judging you...but he does it too, each and every time you do...who is he to judge?...he's just a follower, he doesn't have a choice, you however can stop whenever you want...
...tonight while bound for the ghetto laden with beer, low grade narcotics and pork products i passed a vagrant woman in the streets...i wouldn't say that she was homeless, but i imagined that home to be as meager and sad as this woman appeared to me...most prominent on her ramshackle cart was a large, faded photo of a young boy maybe ten or eleven at the most...beneath the photo was a piteous note asking if anyone had seen her son...
...what troubled me the most was that the photo seemed to have been taken decades ago, and i got a sudden glimpse of this woman's story...that her whole world ended the day he went missing, that she was never able to pick up the pieces and move on, unable to accept that he was, in all likelihood dead, and so spent the years wandering the streets looking for him...
...in that moment, i had one of my few moments of genuine empathy...
...then i remembered an evening some years back when frosty and i made out against a bus shelter in the ghetto while another homeless woman watched from within...
"been out drinkin with the boys again
Sorry I'm calling after 2 a.m.
There's something that I need to say to you
I know it's late
But this can't wait
I just got a new tattoo..."
...is it that we are of a kind?...predators...bored with easy kills, who live for the hunt and not the killing and eating of our prey...or is it fear of becoming each others prey, or are we just practising for the inevitable...
...and it often is inevitable, charming conversation runs dry, awkward silences become less awkward and then like clockwork, you become mechanical animals moving closer, an intricate and unstoppable machine geared for one purpose...
...it was a humid summer evening about a year ago, when two casual aquaintences stepped out onto the balcony of a pool hall for a cigarette only to find that biochemical spark that only two people of opposite sex may share...
...it lasted but a moment, but it was a moment of clarity...before years of drama with our own sexuality caught up with us, and we realised that some bridges were irrevocably burned...a sudden down pour in the streets below sealed our fate to stay there that night, and make peace with our respective others of significance...
...and a complex series of chain reactions that followed, culminated last night when i was forced to buy crappy coke from a weed dealer, and shitty weed from a coke dealer...
...but we're not at that part of the story yet, it's still high noon with two gunfighters squinting at each other across some broad street on the frontier, palms twitching over the hilts of their pistols, ready to draw and unwilling to let their guard down...
...it's probably why so few westerns end with the gun fighters throwing down their pistols, and making out with each other behind the saloon...but then again, so few romantic comedies begin with gratuitous gun play...and the less said about sex in the science fiction genra the better...
...at some point it becomes more about the ritual...waiting those few ominous seconds before those first few innocent pebbles trickle from their pretty pink slip onto the glass...then slicing through them with an expired credit card, coaxing them into neat little lines across the plane, except for those few stubborn flakes hiding among the numbers...
...distilled anarchy channled through a paper cylinder, merging with your own inner demons...
...that first one is always a hideous mess, insufflation is never second nature, but the second one hits the sweet spot, and if she's a dirty girl, she'll burn you a little to remind you of the danger...then you catch a glimpse of your reflection starring back at you through a vanity mirror, scratched and scuffed...judging you...but he does it too, each and every time you do...who is he to judge?...he's just a follower, he doesn't have a choice, you however can stop whenever you want...
...tonight while bound for the ghetto laden with beer, low grade narcotics and pork products i passed a vagrant woman in the streets...i wouldn't say that she was homeless, but i imagined that home to be as meager and sad as this woman appeared to me...most prominent on her ramshackle cart was a large, faded photo of a young boy maybe ten or eleven at the most...beneath the photo was a piteous note asking if anyone had seen her son...
...what troubled me the most was that the photo seemed to have been taken decades ago, and i got a sudden glimpse of this woman's story...that her whole world ended the day he went missing, that she was never able to pick up the pieces and move on, unable to accept that he was, in all likelihood dead, and so spent the years wandering the streets looking for him...
...in that moment, i had one of my few moments of genuine empathy...
...then i remembered an evening some years back when frosty and i made out against a bus shelter in the ghetto while another homeless woman watched from within...
"been out drinkin with the boys again
Sorry I'm calling after 2 a.m.
There's something that I need to say to you
I know it's late
But this can't wait
I just got a new tattoo..."