My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

She’s dark eyes, warm skin, hair that shines red in the sun. She’s laughter, shy giggles, a smile that turns all the surrounding grey to so much color. She’s so many little things, and beautiful things, but it’s those dark eyes, those impossibly dark eyes, they’re what draw you to her. They pull you in, hold you close. You like the close.

She looks at you with those night-sky eyes and you wonder what goes on behind all that darkness. She’ll tell you it’s all nothing, or it’s all nonsense, but it’s not, you know it’s not. It’s music, and art, and a thousand thoughts not put to words. A thousand thoughts you want to know. You wonder what those dark eyes see when they see into you, when they look into you and all your blue.

So, Monday night my friends, Jimmy and Danielle, voiced four of my pieces at Sacred Grounds‘ open mic night…

Telling a story, The world outside is burning, One passing dusk, and He came with her.

He’s sitting there on the kitchen floor, shitty, white linoleum. He’s sitting there, back against a cold steel fridge, a half a bottle of Percocet crushed and dissolved in a tumbler of vodka nestled in his right hand, a carving knife in his left. He’s set to tell a story, beginning, to middle, to end. He could be in the bathroom right now, lying in a warm bubble bath, clutching a bottle of red wine mixed with Xanax in one hand, and a straight-razor in the other, but that wouldn’t be the right setting for telling this particular story. It’d be too soft, too expected, it wouldn’t speak in the right tone. No, the kitchen with a tumbler of vodcacet, and a carving knife, that, well, that will really grab readers, really pull them close. He wants someone close.

So, he’s sitting there, it’s 3:00 AM, dull moonlight pours in through a large skylight. He likes this room because of that skylight, sipping hot coffee in the morning sun, sitting here right now, under a clear night sky. He likes feeling outside, yet not.  He looks toward his vodkacet, knows he’s about to feel so good, so warm. It’ll feel cold in his mouth, burn as he swallows. He’ll be wrapped in a cozy blanket of false contentment. That feeling will be the off-brand version of a lover’s touch, or kiss, or the decadent oblivion found inside the right woman, lying on tousled silk sheets. The off-brand version of how it feels to wake in the morning and see her face. He sighs and takes a sip, decides not to stop until the glass is empty. It feels just like he imagined it would, maybe better. Just now, Goddamn fuckin’ zombies could shamble into the room to keep his company piece by piece, he wouldn’t care. He’s floating around, and hanging out on clouds.

With that warm feeling washing over him, floating on clouds, he takes the carving knife, runs it down both wrists, left and right, slow and vertical. It doesn’t hurt, the vodkacet makes a whisper of all the pain he’s ever felt. His arms feel warm and wet, life pooling all around him, telling a story. He’s bleeding letters, letters forming words, forming sentences, forming paragraphs. It’s a story of loneliness, and tedium, frustration, and loss, and failure. A story spreading out all over that shitty linoleum floor, for anyone to read. A story that goes and then, and then, and then, falling toward resolution.

He closes his eyes, begins to feel sleepy. He thinks about this story that’s spilling out around him, slow and quiet-like, wonders how exactly it will end. He’s writing a stream of consciousness, and he doesn’t know where it might stop.

He climbs onto her back, all slow-like and deliberate. Sabrina feels his shell against hers, pinning her against the cold earth. She feels heat inside her, washing away all the befores until all she can feel is the blinding heat of right now. She arches her shell against his, taking him in deeper, closes her eyes, shutting out the world while keeping him in, a feeling almost too decadent to stand. She wants it to last, but it won’t. She wants it to last, but she knows it can’t. He invited her to follow, to go to this place of white-hot ecstasy, he invited her, and with a sigh, Sabrina came.

They wake to the sounds of alarms, sirens, tires screeching on pavement. The world outside is burning. Trees, houses, it’s all on fire. People screaming, their sorrow floating in through open windows. She’s holding him in bed, lying on ruffled purple sheets under a dark-blue blanket. It was cold out, freezing, until everything turned to flames. They fell asleep happy, all safe and together.

She’s crying now, hot tears running down her face, onto his. He says her name, this name he loves so much, a name attached to soft brown eyes, long curly brown hair against soft pale skin, but she doesn’t answer. Again and again he says it, but she’s no words, just tears. He’d give anything to hear her voice, something beautiful amidst the screaming, and the sirens, and the dying, but her voice isn’t there. There’s a flash bright as day, the room gets very hot, the air very thin, she turns to flame and ash, right fuckin’ there, right in his arms. Their bed, covered in tears, and sweat, and ash, and she’s gone. She’s so totally fucking gone. His skin, burned where he held her.

He tells himself it’s all a bad dream, that he just has to wake up and she’ll be lying next to him. He’ll kiss her softly, run the tips of his long fingers down her cheek. It’ll be cold outside, exactly like it was when he fell asleep with her in his arms. She’ll feel so good, so warm, she’ll feel like a shot of heroin. He’ll hold her close, tell her how much he loves her. He’ll take off her clothes, sink into her until all the fear that covers him falls away.

He hears a song in his head, soft and melancholy. One day she’ll go, I told you so…

He can’t wake up, and the world outside just keeps burning.

So, last night I went to open mic at a cafe in Tampa, Sacred Grounds. I met someone there on Saturday, Danielle, and we’ve been talking since. She really likes my writing for some reason, and asked if she could be my reader at open mic. So, we went and she read three of my flash pieces, Waking up someone who isn’t me, Driving in the dark, and Asleep soon.

Sometimes all he sees is her, all warm brown eyes, curly brown hair.

She’s behind his eyes when he closes them to fall asleep at night, she’s in his head when he wakes in the morning.

He sees her in little things, beautiful things. She’s sun shining through bright green tree leaves, she’s a pretty teal butterfly fluttering nowhere in particular.

He sees her when the sky shifts from pure blue to black infinity. She’s so right there, in the silvery full moon, in the brightest stars.

This woman, so dear to him, he sees her in raindrops bouncing off a city sidewalk. Drops splitting into drops, splitting into drops, tiny spheres of water with rainbows inside. She’s with him, even when she’s not.

Sometimes all he sees is her.

So, here’s my friend, my voice, and fellow writer, Jimmy, reading Christmas in a Park at Cafe Bohemia’s open mic night.

I like this story, and I don’t. I wrote it sitting at Starbucks, thinking about being a spectacular fuck up. I just sat there writing this short sequence that popped into my head, fictional non-fiction about a fellow and the thoughts swirling around in his head. Jimmy gave it a good read on a particularly cold evening.

It’s a cold day, winter. He’s walking through a park, walking and thinking. He’s thinking about a girl, and a fight, and a Christmas tree. It’s a small tree, covered in pretty colored lights, gleaming ornaments, candy canes, a star on top. It’s all bright, and cheer, and warm. Thinking about the tree makes him melancholy, it’s everything he’s not. He’s all dark, and insecure, and uneasy. He’s disconnected, lonely, and in love, all at once.

He’s walking, hands in his coat pockets, trying to keep the cold out. It’s not working. Walking past people, people all bundled up, a fellow with his arm around his lady. People are walking dogs. Some old lady’s walking a cat, black leather harness attached to a leash. A leash lined with little silver bells. It’s an odd scene, a strange little holiday tableau. He’s in this crowd of people, and dogs, and a Goddamn fuckin’ tabby cat on a fuckin’ jingle-bell leash, and he’s the one who feels out of place. He’s so close to a fight, and so far from a girl, and anything he wants. He’s so far from that Christmas tree, and the lights, and ornaments, and candy canes, and the star on top. He’s walking through this park, worn-out and worn-down.

He could go to some bar, some dim shit-hole of a place. He could go and play some Christmas carols on the jukebox, Lithium, Dumb, Between the Bars, Talking to Mary. Angry songs and sad songs, songs of isolation and loss, love turned to pain. The songs dancing around in his head, Christmas carols to him. One day she’ll go, I told you so… Lyrics he often hears when it’s quiet, the soundtrack to his dreary Christmas. He could down a bunch of vodka, but it’s a little early, and a lot pointless. A temporary fix for a broken life.

There’s a bench, wood slats painted blue, he takes a seat. Cold air’s stinging his eyes, but the sun is big and on fire, shining through green tree leaves. Nature’s all around, beautiful and so right there. The world looks peaceful from that bench, unlike the noise and the worry in him. He’s tired, he wants to sleep. He thinks about the blade in his pocket, a switch-blade all sharp and shiny. He thinks about running the blade down his wrists, two vertical slits in front of God, and nature, and everyone, making a whisper of himself. He thinks about falling asleep in a red pool of life, wonders if he’d wake up some place better. He doubts it.

He knows where better is, and he wonders if he can go back. He hopes he can go back, but for right now, he’ll just sit here awhile.

You are not perfect, you are not pure.

You are full of cracks, cracks too deep to fill with all the liquor, all the morphine in the world.

You are damaged, and fucked up, and worn down.

You’re just pretending to be alive, pretending until you can stop.