Hurt Me Daddy, for I Have Blogged

And so we come here to the place of a thousand voices. I thought this was a necropolis, but every inch of it feels and sounds alive. There is something more sinister at work here besides the miserly claw of time. We know what fought your will to life. We know that sometimes, there are dualistic forces at work. When I first saw you, you were in the same room as we were. You led along the first lines of our thinking in this certain way. There were tiny lines, tendrils, connecting us. Arteries and nerves of this thing we call friendship. How do I know? How did we know? No one thought of the thousand stars because they were busy staring at the black curtain. Now you're a series of polaroids. Your face becomes etched ever more weakly, like a repetitious cliche. But who needs the world of old houses? Musty investments; this crumbling material we call life. I find it silly when I think about it, too. Now I am the old lady, writing about my irrelevancy, and you've had the last la...

How does it feel now? One foot in front of the other, walking on the path. I listen to and weigh all the doubts. I worry about my capacity to do what most people seem to do decently and naturally. People have not been granted much in the way of things sometimes. I don't really think there is just a way that things are inherently. I suppose that it's all perspective, all judgment, all subjective. I know that I am no more superior than the guy with the three beemers in his driveway or the bum on the street corner. We all do different things in this world, I suppose. My thoughts wander, my focus wanders. I come back to the path again. I evaluate and try to see if I have made the best decision. I am rarely assured of this. But I guess we do the best with the information we have at the time. I am keeping score. I make no lie of it. I know I am not in the place to judge, but we still must evaluate as best we can with the information we have.

I remember when they used to have personal ads in there. Someone seeks someone else. European. Mediterranean. Muscular build. For playtime. Loves fast cars. I always wondered what the people actually looked like. It was in the days before the false honesty of internet dating, I can tell you that. In the days before the Craigslist rape fantasy. I wondered how we were supposed to fully appreciate each other when we were shorthand paragraphs. N/S/Drugs. A/s/l? But that came later. I wondered about who was truly lucky enough to find this love there. In tiny, centimeter-by-centimeter squares. How hungrily pored over were they? What happened when they actually met? Did they last? Were the people crazy? The woman or man who wondered "Were you waiting for me"... Was it the same kind of bottom-feeder we are used to nowadays? What of judgment? What of sex? Did anything go? Does our love become the same kissed-away time capsule pieces of paper, biodegrading into the earth years later? W...

Look at this. It's a picture of me, 12 years old, completely sullen. Knowing that someday I would break out of that, but not knowing when. How many hours had I spent waiting in purgatorial corridors? Touching decay, befriending dark walls. I thought I had heard it whispered, once, that my time would come. And now these hands beckon me, stepping through Time's tunnel, strangely seeing that light that everyone claims is there when they are knocked unconscious. These people have it all marked with me. But there was no script, no plan for this. I walked it on my own. I walked until I stopped to embrace people on the way. This was whispered to me, once, but I mostly ignored it. Who knew that I would get my peace, my happiness, that one day I would be equaled in those who poured themselves out to the world? But it happened. What was whispered became true. I remember when people used to tell me "You should smile more." I have finally started doing that. There is sun on my fa...

She was not new to going to strange mens' rooms. But this was different and mildly silly. "You know, I expected him to be down here in the lobby." "Yeah, this is kinda shady..." she chuckled. Tim walked up to the concierge's desk. "I'm looking for a Mr. W. Svenson." Jake shifted his weight. He wasn't usually here at this hour. His eyes met hers and there was a scared, uncomfortable moment. Wasn't she the one who was always going around with that guy who lived in 312 and all sorts of other men? Jake cleared his throat. "Ok, one moment." He called up. "Mr. Svenson? You have some guests in the lobby to see you." A few seconds. He hung up. Another man was in the elevator when they got in. She and Tim giggled at the awkwardness. Considering her job, she should have learned to ignore that sort of thing by now, like smelly gym socks in a corner somewhere, but it was just too random. "So you think I should s...

"Shit. Shit shit shit shit," cursed Jake. He threw his pen away from his drawing across the desk and ran outside. The bum clearly had a head wound. It was bleeding a hell of a lot. He was completely laid up on his back. Pupils did not seem to be rolling back in his head. He was just out cold, with open eyes. And bleeding. "Hi, 911? It looks like there's a transient passed out on the sidewalk connected to our property. He appears to have a really terrible head wound." Jake gave them the address. He hated dealing with crisis situations, though he had to do it on a fairly regular basis. It seemed like 15 minutes before the ambulance got there. He fumbled with the crumpled-up pieces of paper and rosary in his pocket. Jake felt ineffectual. The bum seemed to be coming to on his own as the medics showed up. They tried to get his information and tried to get him to talk straight. Eventually they hauled him away. Jake shook his head and shuffled back inside to his...

She closed her eyes and cocked the gun as he strained and moaned. It sometimes took a lot for her not to laugh at inopportune moments. The alarm went off. "Time's up, fuckhead," she said with a brotherly chuckle. He lay there panting. ---------- The man in the fuschia suit was always outside smoking. Jake had seen him countless times that weekend. "Who the fuck wears a fuschia suit," he muttered to himself behind the desk. He would put money on the fact that this guy was a tweaker. He couldn't tell what his age was. Jake went back to his sketching. This time it was a strange, Boschian fish-bird that had been emerging. He wondered about the symbolism. He'd always liked Bosch's art and had wondered about all the alchemical mysteries in it. Sometimes during the graveyard hours, he'd play solitaire, or flick each card in the deck across the room by squeezing it vertically between his thumb and index finger until it snapped out. Jake always ...