Tuesday, January 08, 2008
pairings.
A boy and a girl fall in love in a windfall sort of way. Their's is an attraction that bewilders, often murky and convoluted in execution. During lovemaking they are reckless, knocking over the bedside floor lamp or sending a poorly placed glass of water to the floor.
The boy never knows for certain what the girl is thinking. He's hopeless with her over the phone, awkward with his body in person. This underlying unease frustrates and intrigues; seems somehow complimentary. Constantly at a loss as to the relationship's status he loses his appetite and nurtures intimacy by carefully buying books he sees lined up on her shelf. He always wears a pair of green all-stars she once said she liked.
The girl was raised on an all-girl catholic school education. She was taught things about love, like: you can't fall in love until you're 25 and have known the person for two years. She tells him this on her bed in her two-room double, leaned against him in a mess of pillows and late afternoon daylight. He doesn't say anything and hopes it's the right answer.
There was a place they'd go with their coffee and cigarrettes. By climbing up a clangy metal fire escape they could sit near the top southern side of a bold yellow octagonal building, on a hill. They met in the winter, so sitting up high in the wind's searching path quickly numbed their feet and hands, but they still spent many stubborn hours sharing stories and nervously bouncing their senseless sneakered feet. The boy liked how the girl's eyes reddened and watered in the cold. How her long brown curls looked coming out from her yellow wool hat - held tight to her small head then flowing out - like something being freed.
She told him a story about doubling up on a bike with her sister on some suburban California street. The chain caught her foot and the bike bucked, spilling them across the asphalt. Her sister was ok, some roadburn on her knees and hands, but the chain hadn't let go of her foot, snapping the ankle as the bike pinned her to the street. He explained the raised skin on the inside of his arm. How his mother brought him a piece of bread with peanut butter, toasted because he liked it hot. He was lying on his stomach watching cartoons and when he put his hand in the air to take the plate the toast slid off, landing face down on his arm. The oils seared his skin into a scar shaped like Florida.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
tonight holding.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
The way it goes is he'll find a note folded small and wedged into his mailbox, no stamp or envelope. What's written today is:
tonight holding.
He'll pocket it, cut across the lawn. The evening beats like a living thing.
Off work and on his bike, the uphill washed shades of orange by the scattered streetlight. The rubber tires turn against the asphalt making insect sounds, a rhythmic hum cutting the air as he pedals, standing. From the top he sees her house, pink with blinded windows deadending the bottom of the hill. He coasts all the way to the driveway, his legs slack and cooling in the rush of air. Green plastic garbage cans jut out between parked cars like blurry mailboxes. There's a plank missing in the wooden gate tracing her backyard that he steers his bike through, leaning it with an arm against the house. He turns the ringer on the side door. Sounds of things being put down.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"You're here."
"Yeah."
"Come in."
First there's the hallway, narrow and carpeted and dark, lit from rooms further up on both sides. The smell is something like cedar, some piney candle or air freshener plugged into a floor socket. Cuban music seeps from an unknown source. She pulls aside a blanket she's nailed across a doorless doorway and he follows her into her bedroom. There's a bed up high, a loft, and a mattress with twisted Star Wars sheets in the opposite corner on the floor underneath two windows. This is the bed she moves toward, taking his hand to assure her lead. She discards her wine glass on the dresser with a glance back, over her shoulder. He considers her grace. How fluent she is with all outside her.
She lowers onto the bed, turning her body out so he's folded over her's, his back a breath from the wall. The bedsprings push back, a sound like a rocking chair. He still hears the music as they fade asleep. He still feels her weight.
Some interval later he wakes. It's still dark out. The light's on and he lies with his eyes open awhile, lazy in registering the soft-lit details of the room. The blanket in the doorway has a wide-eyed killer whale breaking, touching the sky while birds v-line in the blue and white. Her or her roommate's skinny black cat watches him from next to a dented wicker laundry basket. They haven't shifted in their sleep; she's squeezing his right hand pressed to her stomach against her zippered lime sweater, his nose breathes in the softness of her hair, black split in two braids. He kisses the back of her head and pulls his hand free, pushing off the bed and onto the floor. She's still asleep and he leaves the light on, retracing his entrance down the narrow hallway running a finger along the wall and out onto the street. He rides across town back to his apartment before the sun even hints at showing up.
tonight touching.
They're all skin and discarded clothes, standing, her soft stomach warm into his, slow hands mapping shoulder blades and the dip of the back along the spine. He likes to watch his own fingers move against her skin, wondering how it feels to her. To be touched by him. The light sprays wildly from a suspended candle holder as the wind sneaks through an open window. It dangles from underneath the loft bed and makes quiet metal sounds as the chain's moved. He thinks of shadows as taking up space. They're touching and he can feel her hot blood beat when his fingers linger on her neck, under her chin, slow-moving and deliberate, with vague intent. The light on her skin is unreliable and when she pulls back to look at him her eyes are black and wet. Her fingers go through his hair in that pleasing way; he finds the back of her ear the softest skin. She smells like babies and clean clothes. Inside his head it's quiet and soon they fall asleep.
A seamless habit is nurtured and sustained.
tonight fucking.
He rides home to the slap of newspapers thrown into driveways, sprinklers spraying to life, garbage trucks creaking and lumbering down thin one-way streets.
tonight kissing.
Birds sing the same songs every morning in the grey-blue purgatory of moon and sun.
tonight reading.
Sometimes the notes are there every day.
tonight sleeping.
Sometimes not for two weeks.
tonight eating.
Summer's greens bleed into the brown of fall, the mute blue before January.
tonight sharing.
They always meet at night, at her place, late.
tonight fucking (rough).
The routine claims the attachments of neither, though winter cold seems less hard.
tonight holding.
Bits of him are left in her room, books on the floor, cds on the dresser.
tonight holding.
And then one morning she calls his name from her bed as she hears him leaving down the hall.
"Michael."
And she asks him to stay.
The way it goes is he'll find a note folded small and wedged into his mailbox, no stamp or envelope. What's written today is:
tonight holding.
He'll pocket it, cut across the lawn. The evening beats like a living thing.
Off work and on his bike, the uphill washed shades of orange by the scattered streetlight. The rubber tires turn against the asphalt making insect sounds, a rhythmic hum cutting the air as he pedals, standing. From the top he sees her house, pink with blinded windows deadending the bottom of the hill. He coasts all the way to the driveway, his legs slack and cooling in the rush of air. Green plastic garbage cans jut out between parked cars like blurry mailboxes. There's a plank missing in the wooden gate tracing her backyard that he steers his bike through, leaning it with an arm against the house. He turns the ringer on the side door. Sounds of things being put down.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"You're here."
"Yeah."
"Come in."
First there's the hallway, narrow and carpeted and dark, lit from rooms further up on both sides. The smell is something like cedar, some piney candle or air freshener plugged into a floor socket. Cuban music seeps from an unknown source. She pulls aside a blanket she's nailed across a doorless doorway and he follows her into her bedroom. There's a bed up high, a loft, and a mattress with twisted Star Wars sheets in the opposite corner on the floor underneath two windows. This is the bed she moves toward, taking his hand to assure her lead. She discards her wine glass on the dresser with a glance back, over her shoulder. He considers her grace. How fluent she is with all outside her.
She lowers onto the bed, turning her body out so he's folded over her's, his back a breath from the wall. The bedsprings push back, a sound like a rocking chair. He still hears the music as they fade asleep. He still feels her weight.
Some interval later he wakes. It's still dark out. The light's on and he lies with his eyes open awhile, lazy in registering the soft-lit details of the room. The blanket in the doorway has a wide-eyed killer whale breaking, touching the sky while birds v-line in the blue and white. Her or her roommate's skinny black cat watches him from next to a dented wicker laundry basket. They haven't shifted in their sleep; she's squeezing his right hand pressed to her stomach against her zippered lime sweater, his nose breathes in the softness of her hair, black split in two braids. He kisses the back of her head and pulls his hand free, pushing off the bed and onto the floor. She's still asleep and he leaves the light on, retracing his entrance down the narrow hallway running a finger along the wall and out onto the street. He rides across town back to his apartment before the sun even hints at showing up.
tonight touching.
They're all skin and discarded clothes, standing, her soft stomach warm into his, slow hands mapping shoulder blades and the dip of the back along the spine. He likes to watch his own fingers move against her skin, wondering how it feels to her. To be touched by him. The light sprays wildly from a suspended candle holder as the wind sneaks through an open window. It dangles from underneath the loft bed and makes quiet metal sounds as the chain's moved. He thinks of shadows as taking up space. They're touching and he can feel her hot blood beat when his fingers linger on her neck, under her chin, slow-moving and deliberate, with vague intent. The light on her skin is unreliable and when she pulls back to look at him her eyes are black and wet. Her fingers go through his hair in that pleasing way; he finds the back of her ear the softest skin. She smells like babies and clean clothes. Inside his head it's quiet and soon they fall asleep.
A seamless habit is nurtured and sustained.
tonight fucking.
He rides home to the slap of newspapers thrown into driveways, sprinklers spraying to life, garbage trucks creaking and lumbering down thin one-way streets.
tonight kissing.
Birds sing the same songs every morning in the grey-blue purgatory of moon and sun.
tonight reading.
Sometimes the notes are there every day.
tonight sleeping.
Sometimes not for two weeks.
tonight eating.
Summer's greens bleed into the brown of fall, the mute blue before January.
tonight sharing.
They always meet at night, at her place, late.
tonight fucking (rough).
The routine claims the attachments of neither, though winter cold seems less hard.
tonight holding.
Bits of him are left in her room, books on the floor, cds on the dresser.
tonight holding.
And then one morning she calls his name from her bed as she hears him leaving down the hall.
"Michael."
And she asks him to stay.
in parts. two.
in parts. two.
Sentences unfreeze in this great thaw, the warmth loosening words that before had been blocked by his teeth, swallowed in gulps and throat clearings. Lovers look no longer to his eyes for flashes of nakedness and truth, but listen instead as he strings his feelings together into the air.
Ive learned all I wish to of you.
I want no more from life but this moment.
You make everything matter less.
Sentences unfreeze in this great thaw, the warmth loosening words that before had been blocked by his teeth, swallowed in gulps and throat clearings. Lovers look no longer to his eyes for flashes of nakedness and truth, but listen instead as he strings his feelings together into the air.
Ive learned all I wish to of you.
I want no more from life but this moment.
You make everything matter less.
in parts.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
in parts
It ends with a fall. Before, things had shrugged off any rational progression. Like: his hair fell out early evening, brown lines mixing with garlic skins and tomato seeds on the cutting board where he chopped onions. In three days he had to rub a mixture of sunblock and aloe sap onto his bald head. A week later his hair grew back, white as milk, full as before. He assumed everyone thought he'd bought a wig, conceding, with the choice of color, at least, to an acknowledgment of decay. And: his mood improved, wildly, dramatically, contagiously. As his joints thickened with fluid and pain, thoughts of squandered potential and indecision shriveled up and died. Friends noticed, with some curiosity, a freshness of breath that hadn't been there before, and leaned in closer when he spoke.
in parts
It ends with a fall. Before, things had shrugged off any rational progression. Like: his hair fell out early evening, brown lines mixing with garlic skins and tomato seeds on the cutting board where he chopped onions. In three days he had to rub a mixture of sunblock and aloe sap onto his bald head. A week later his hair grew back, white as milk, full as before. He assumed everyone thought he'd bought a wig, conceding, with the choice of color, at least, to an acknowledgment of decay. And: his mood improved, wildly, dramatically, contagiously. As his joints thickened with fluid and pain, thoughts of squandered potential and indecision shriveled up and died. Friends noticed, with some curiosity, a freshness of breath that hadn't been there before, and leaned in closer when he spoke.
the most awkwardest of exits
Saturday, February 11, 2006
the most awkwardest of exits
staying in a hostel in florence, italy. richie and i exit our room. reception is outside our door, a medium sized room. the guy working there is at the desk, talking to two girls who have bags and look like they just checked in. all are sitting down.
mike. mostly just to the reception guy, who is nice. "uh, ciao!"
all. "ciao."
I open the door leading to the stairwell. we're three flights up. darkness. attempting to turn the lights to the stairs on, i flip a switch in the reception room next to the door. turning out half the lights in this room instead of the stairs. i fail to notice. i hear the nice man say something about needing some lights, haha, it's night out, and realize what i've done. i click the lights back on, and then reach for more switches, slapping them down. i ring the doorbell, a loud chime again in the reception room. somehow, i also slap the stair lights on. everyone laughs, haha, and i mumble something about it being hard to tell what goes with what.
the most awkwardest of exits
staying in a hostel in florence, italy. richie and i exit our room. reception is outside our door, a medium sized room. the guy working there is at the desk, talking to two girls who have bags and look like they just checked in. all are sitting down.
mike. mostly just to the reception guy, who is nice. "uh, ciao!"
all. "ciao."
I open the door leading to the stairwell. we're three flights up. darkness. attempting to turn the lights to the stairs on, i flip a switch in the reception room next to the door. turning out half the lights in this room instead of the stairs. i fail to notice. i hear the nice man say something about needing some lights, haha, it's night out, and realize what i've done. i click the lights back on, and then reach for more switches, slapping them down. i ring the doorbell, a loud chime again in the reception room. somehow, i also slap the stair lights on. everyone laughs, haha, and i mumble something about it being hard to tell what goes with what.
how to be a filthy filthy english teacher
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
how to be a filthy filthy english teacher
so, i try to say a hungarian phrase each class, just to show how awful my pronunciation is and show students not to be scared of making mistakes in english. i asked a hungarian teacher how to ask 'do you like to dance in the snow?', because it's snowing outside and colder than you can even fucking imagine no matter how hard you try. the hungarian is 'szeretsz a hoban tancolni?'. the last word is said TAN SO KNEE, which means dancing. so i get to class and say the phrase, but i say the last word TON SO NI. i make eye contact with each student, nicely butchering the query four times. which i don't realize until i say the phrase afterwards to the hungarian teacher who taught it to me. i told her how they all looked at me funny (three women and a dude) and said i should only say that to women. i remember asking, "why, is it because it's like flirting?" the teacher blushed. why? because TON SO NI means fucking. i asked my students if they liked fucking in the snow. each. student. a 60 year old retired surgeon, two college students, and a thirty something newlywed. awesome. how i'm going to fix this tonight i don't know. eat some flesh, pick some bone.
how to be a filthy filthy english teacher
so, i try to say a hungarian phrase each class, just to show how awful my pronunciation is and show students not to be scared of making mistakes in english. i asked a hungarian teacher how to ask 'do you like to dance in the snow?', because it's snowing outside and colder than you can even fucking imagine no matter how hard you try. the hungarian is 'szeretsz a hoban tancolni?'. the last word is said TAN SO KNEE, which means dancing. so i get to class and say the phrase, but i say the last word TON SO NI. i make eye contact with each student, nicely butchering the query four times. which i don't realize until i say the phrase afterwards to the hungarian teacher who taught it to me. i told her how they all looked at me funny (three women and a dude) and said i should only say that to women. i remember asking, "why, is it because it's like flirting?" the teacher blushed. why? because TON SO NI means fucking. i asked my students if they liked fucking in the snow. each. student. a 60 year old retired surgeon, two college students, and a thirty something newlywed. awesome. how i'm going to fix this tonight i don't know. eat some flesh, pick some bone.
tonight's class.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
tonight's class
i thought i would tell you what i'm teaching my students this evening - the present perfect continuous v. the present perfect simple. keep in mind that the class is pre intermediate conversation, and i have to explain what words like 'normal' and 'understand?' mean. I have some games planned out, here is a brief description...
jigsaw mischief. where students put down clues (pieces of the puzzle) until their partner can guess what mischief a cartoon boy with long hair has been getting into. notice - has been getting into - this is the perfect continuous. brilliant.
an apology game, with pictures of things like a bug in a soup. the student with a matching card must apologize for putting the bug in the soup, and offer to fix the problem. some sample prompts i will likely give -
"adrian, why did you put that dead bug in timea's soup? what kind of a waiter are you?"
"erzsebet, your dog has gotten into the neighbor's yard and is digging holes again! will you tie him to a tree? or make sure your fence is latched?"
"oh no katalin, it looks like you have spilled hot coffee all over timea's baby! what do you say?"
tonight's class
i thought i would tell you what i'm teaching my students this evening - the present perfect continuous v. the present perfect simple. keep in mind that the class is pre intermediate conversation, and i have to explain what words like 'normal' and 'understand?' mean. I have some games planned out, here is a brief description...
jigsaw mischief. where students put down clues (pieces of the puzzle) until their partner can guess what mischief a cartoon boy with long hair has been getting into. notice - has been getting into - this is the perfect continuous. brilliant.
an apology game, with pictures of things like a bug in a soup. the student with a matching card must apologize for putting the bug in the soup, and offer to fix the problem. some sample prompts i will likely give -
"adrian, why did you put that dead bug in timea's soup? what kind of a waiter are you?"
"erzsebet, your dog has gotten into the neighbor's yard and is digging holes again! will you tie him to a tree? or make sure your fence is latched?"
"oh no katalin, it looks like you have spilled hot coffee all over timea's baby! what do you say?"
almost late october
Thursday, October 20, 2005
 | almost late october and it's freezing cold out here in budapest. went to this neat little spot tonight, one of many 'temporary' bars out here, set up in abandoned courtyards of apartment complexes, lights dangling from the balconies. these are usually only set up in the summertime, before it gets too cold and everyone retreats to cozy underground caves. but it was nice, drank some "mold" wine, which is heated with cinnamon, to cut the chill outside. met some kids from poland and croatia. "you have to come to krakow" repeated over and over. "so many different bars." i have to get a space heater in my frigid apartment, is what i wanted to say. and this is a boring first entry, but i wanted to fill something empty. |
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