A Broken Crow

i totally used the word "plethora" in my essay and that is extremely sexy.

try to resist me. just try.

i'm sorry about that fireball "incident".

(if i had a nickel for everytime i said that, i'd have at least two nickels! pow!)

also: i bought the new beck cd this morning. zang!

because i need him to explain fractals and chaos theory and iterated algorithms to me.
finally! all your glorious math knowledge can be put to use!
strangely enough for me to write an english paper. (who knew?)

why do i do this to myself every term? rhetorical leap frog is not fun. i know this. everyone knows this.

i'm skipping my creative writing class right now because i haven't read 'the prince of tides'. (actually, i haven't even cracked the cover...nor have i really looked at the cover, but i did see the cover of the film interpretation and it had nick nolte and barbara streisand in bed together and that pretty much made it a no go for me)

when i walk in the rain, it's like walking with a film over my eyes. it's dangerous. i might get hit by cars today. check the papers.

and i really miss you guys when i live in my bubble of academia, with your dvds and your video games and your curtained rooms and your loud music. crazy kids. i stole a cheese slice because there was nothing else. i fell asleep on the little couch until three, then mike came home and fell asleep there. we live in patterns where alcohol, is the only constant variable.

constants. variables. fractals. what? tom rockett: put down that controller. stop "schooling"/"owning" people at street fighter. stop listening to scatman. stop dissing ron's mom. you gotta 'splain some of this to me.

how the days pass. do we have enough time for a quickie, you and i? you can hold my hand while i run down hills and i'll fall asleep with all the blankets.

the stress is almost funny.

i'll be drunk tonight.

maddie isn't sleeping, she's been up all night.
four books to read, and three papers to write.
she's got a headful of fear and it arms her with malice.
she's got a handful of pills because they give her balance
to conquer her world, her work and her demons,
when even her smile is more than it seems and
her actions are narrow, self-serving and cold.
her words are like water that you're trying to hold...

(you could call sometime, you know. that would be okay. unless you want to be my drug dealer and nothing more.)

i finished a chapter. a whole chapter. maybe i haven't been faking it all along.

sometimes it feels like this. under the clouds and over the sea. a pocket where winter persists, bleating in through the button holes on my coat. i walk with my eyes on the ground and my hands clamped over my ears, where an icy wind curls around and around like a tongue. when the spring thaw somes, for real this time, i want to scuff my feet through rancid grass and find my sense of touch and maybe my cell phone too. everything is lost in the winter.

i'm supposed to do work tonight but i don't want to. i want to run along train tracks in august before things got weird and scary. i want italian sodas and small mountains that seem huge when you're climbing them, lit with the city's artificial stars. i want you safe, for real this time.

( i mean it. i mean it. i mean it more than you know. more than the other times.)

I had a funny incident at work today. i'll relate it for you:


"Do you use Free Range beans?"

"What?"

"Your shop. Does it use only free range beans?"

"Do you mean Fair Trade beans?"

"No. Free Range."

"Well then yes. Let me assure you that none of our beans were ever kept in pens or over-crowded cages. Each individual Second Cup bean led a full and natural life in the open bean fields before being masterfully plucked by seven-year-old fingers."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"Oh yes."

the head with the red hat bobbles back and forth like a buoy on the surface of the water. the scraggly pom pom leaps and jiggles excitedly. and i'm grinning into my shoulder because it's all so perfect that it hurts. his eyes are shining. wait for it. wait for it. SLAM. a break in the music, everything stops. there's face with a stuck out tongue and hands turn into pistols that are really trumpets piercing the air. there is a moment of choas and then a return to the slow rolling bass.

Dani jumps around the front of the room, screaming over the blaring music, because he has to. In silence, his voice freezes into icicles in his chest. his words are cold and sharp and rigid.

"don't worry about this stuff. don't worry. fundamentally everything is okay. we've found the pocket. so now music can be safe. we just have to stay here."

except it's never really safe. this kind of music is secretly lethal. impossible. i want to understand it. i want to swallow it down, but it's like a drink that won't fit through the bottle neck. the music taunts me like a slow strip tease with all the vital parts turned away from the light.

"whenever you think -your- life is out of control, listen to some ornette coleman and just dig it. yeah. then you won't feel so bad because that dude's on jazz crack. well, maybe just regular crack."

Dani lost his place for a while, so he performed like a beat box until he found it.

he drew a peacock on the board with no legs and a rainbow coming out of its eyes. no reason. i now know what a vibraslap is. i think. he drew that too.

i learned a new word: schmaltz

meaning of lesser quality. rock country is schmaltz. romance novels are schmaltz. this post is definately schmaltz.

by controlling the past i control the future. pour it all into a pot so it's impossible to separate the good from the bad from oh-so-unbelievable.

that time i played guitar in math class and i was more terrified than i've ever been when performing. my heart was knocking into my back teeth and my left leg was visibly trembling. you casually pressed one hand down onto my knee to keep me from shaking so no one would know i was scared. i remember that.

and that's all. that's all there is and all i want. and i can do that if i want to. reality is like hot clay in my hands and it's mine to mold.

(i want to go months without speaking. without uttering a single sound, and then when the silence becomes too much for me to bear i want to make note of the first word i just had to say. i want to know which words would cut in line, push their way aggressively to the tip of my tongue before spilling over my lips. they would sound like fat drops of water falling into an empty, metal bucket. ringing hollowly. i would write them down and show no one because they would have lost any meaning the second they became audible.)

my leg still shakes when i play the guitar.

The Cosmos-the-Alien suit stood at least six feet tall on even the smallest person. It was made from garishly bright green and violet fabrics that felt simultaneously thick and spongy and also slippery to the touch. They put the legs on me first and before they had even gotten halfway I had already begun to sweat. This concerned me. Just how hot was this stupid suit going to be? What if I passed out? What if I fell down and crushed a baby? Next, they fit the alien torso onto mine, the belly of which contained a large hula-hoop. This meant that Cosmos always looked round and jolly no matter who was inside. This also meant that even if a person were exceptionally graceful, once held captive inside the suit, they might only hope to manage a slow and awkward waddle. This was my fate, to be reduced to the physicality of an obese duck. And being less than exceptionally graceful, my worries only increased. After the legs and torso were as comfortably in place as possible, I was fitted into the green alien gloves. While the gloves seemed to be the only part of the outfit that came close to fitting me, they unfortunately rendered even the simple manipulation of a doorknob impossible. I began to wonder how much the suit would impede an emergency escape from the building should my situation require one. Probably a lot. If all of this were not bad enough, the entire costume weighed about twenty pounds and that was without the head, which probably weighed twenty pounds on its own. The head itself was so large and so hot that someone had once had the brilliant idea of jamming a big fan in the top of it. This, of course, did nothing to help the weight issue.

It took them almost forty minutes and four people to get the suit on me. When the task was finally completed and the head was placed triumphantly upon my shoulders for the first time, I collapsed like a card house, taking a small folding table full of used paper plates and cups with me. As I lay there on the floor, unable to move or see, roasting from the heat and covered in garbage, I knew that no good could possibly come from this. Mike and Foster heaved me to my feet and pointed me towards the door. As I struggled to retain my balance, Foster whispered into my ear, or Cosmos’ mouth, a few final words of advice.

“Remember not to talk. No matter what. Cosmos can’t talk. Not even when he’s pushed down and beaten without mercy.”

Feeling more alarmed now than ever, I was shoved abruptly through the staff room door and into the crowded play area. For a few seconds I just stood there teetering, trying desperately not to fall over and also trying desperately to ignore how much the inside of the suit really smelled like pizza and armpits. The stench was foul, and combined with the weight and unfathomable temperatures I was experiencing, I was beginning to feel woozy. Through my meshy, alien mouth I watched in horror as, one by one, every child in the building stopped what they were doing and turned his or her gaze to me. There was approximately a six second pause before they rushed me.

I frantically began my act of waving, hugging, high fives and meandering about, hoping to appease my raucous audience. I tried to give a few people the wink-and-gun, but after a few horrified looks from young mothers I realized that the gesture must have resembled something much ruder through the suit. Two little girls told me they loved me and I almost started to enjoy myself. This isn’t so bad is it? I’m making people happy! I’m making children laugh and smile! I’m a good person!
It was during this ill-conceived moment of false security and self-delight that the attack happened. Out of nowhere, two scruffy boys were suddenly wrapped tightly around my legs, pulling me back and forth with all their strength. A high-pitched voice rose up from behind me like a miniature demon from hell.

“BALL WAR!!!” The voice squawked abrasively.

I had no time even to wonder what such an exclamation could mean, for at once I was being pelted from every direction. Multi-colored, plastic balls bounced off my face and hula-hoop belly. Each time I tried to move away, another battalion of mangy little soldiers would spring up and begin a new assault. For a while, all I could see was a terrifying rainbow. After a few minutes of this, I managed to spot the one giving the orders during a slight rift in the otherwise steady onslaught. He was shorter than the rest of the boys, sandy-haired and had an orange pop mustache. He leapt nimbly onto a pile of mats to oversee his destruction and further direct his army.

“KNOCK HIM DOWN!!!” The little voice squealed with maniacal glee and a dozen followers came at me, throwing themselves onto my legs, arms, chest and back until I crumpled onto the floor in defeat. A storm of tiny fists pounded into my sides while three others boys began to drag me by my legs into what I could only assume was some sort of holding area they had fashioned. I wondered if they were going to torture me. Only a few feet away I could hear Mike and Foster laughing hysterically. It was clear then that no one was going to help me. I would have to rescue myself. I began flailing around wildly on my back, like some huge, epileptic turtle. After a few swings, I reached around and grabbed a leg. Through the mouth, I gazed up into the unmistakable orange mustache of the leader. He looked down at me now with cruel delight and mischievous rapture. By the tag on his chest, I could tell that it was his birthday. I tightened my grip around his ankle and twisted the massive green alien head towards him.

“Listen kid,” I snarled, “I am not a nice, squishy, green alien. I’m a vicious bitch and I could care less that it’s your birthday. If you don’t let me go right now, I swear to God I will fucking destroy you. I’ll steal all of your presents. I’ll inject your birthday cake with poisonous cleaners. I’ll eat your precious pets for breakfast you little twat, and you’ll wish you never came near me.”

He stared at me as though frozen, one hand still raised in a small fist, poised and vigilant. He couldn’t have been older than seven or eight and yet I feared him. If nothing else, he could have me fired for what I just said. At that moment he grinned terribly.

“Cosmos doesn’t talk.” He reminded me, and with that punched me squarely in the ribs and scampered off. His army followed after him like a swarm of locusts and I was left face down on the floor, gasping like a fish out of water. Three hundred children went on with their games.

it's a scene from a movie that everyone loved except myself and a few smith street boys. the person on the couch. unmoving. the fun happening around them, like a day passing without you even noticing. sun up, sun down. what? it was like that. last night. just sitting and watching and feeling like i wasn't even there.

things are said and i'm angry and frustrated and want to laugh in your face, but i don't.

i sang as loud as i could. i wanted to block the entire place out. you could scream but no one would hear you. just air, sucking out of your mouth. dry and swollen. a silent vaccuum of sound. howling. silent. howling. silent.

i should slap your face.

back away. shake it off. too much, too much, too much lemonade. i keep my real words in my pockets and they rattle when i walk. like bones. like dry bones.

cut me and then blame me for bleeding,
won't find me begging or pleading.
am i speaking English?
or is this just a deathwish?

do your worst. i'm stone. i'm untouchable, motherfucker.

it's so weird to think of everything as fiction. nothing is real and everything is a story. every week is a chapter. each day, a plot twist if i'm lucky. you, reading this, are a prominent character. where do you fit into my fiction? are you that person that picks me up, dusts me off and tells me to keep going? or are you the reason i'm face down in the dirt in the first place? do you wonder? do you already know?

all i want is to write something real, and so i take something real to me and make it false, every sentence is further and further removed. a picture inside of a picture inside of a picture, and you know it goes on for eternity only it's too small for you to see. everything is filtered. a real tree is a description of an image of a tree. a sound is a group of letters on a page. i feel blinded, deafened and muted by all this fiction.

everytime i sit down to write, it all splinters into pieces. it's like putting my life through a cheese grater and then melting it into a cohesive whole, trying to pretend it was never fragmented. what's the point? fiction. today was a setting. tomorrow you will be my resolution, i can feel it. almost.

(she stepped off the train and looked over the jagged peaks that swept across the horizon. a row of sharp, white teeth threatening to pierce a perfect blue canopy. "nothing will ever feel this real again". and it was true. it's all been fiction since.)

the fastest way to end an adventure is realize that you're having one. life isn't life anymore when it's fodder for the storyteller. besides, storytellers lie.