Thursday, August 31, 2017
8.31
The feel of my bones is old ash, only holding its old shape because no one has come by to stir the fire, no structure beneath has collapsed. The hot air winding through my frame serves only further to hold me up and strip away any unburnt remnant. The true part of me is away in the atmosphere, now, expanding, gaseous, larger than I could ever be, not this carbonaceous ossification.
Wednesday, August 30, 2017
8.29
The Violet, a criminal name I concocted for myself, is an unlikely burglar. Honestly, did you ever suspect me? I admit, it's a stretch to assume a thief in these clothings, but I'm prepared to confess all the same. You have your choice to believe me, of course: as in all things, you deserve your own opinions, untainted and un--
As I was saying, the Violet: the story begins somewhat cooly, somewhat coincidentally, as it turns out. I was in Sir Ranulph's house, as I recall, a somewhat stately and short-ceilinged mansion, a brickwork skeleton with a stone façade. There was something insignificant about the way he handled his artifacts, actually. I remember finding an ancient bit of Indus River civilization leaning up against a book about British mice having been nearly exterminated by the arrival of the Norwegian rat, at least, according to the archeological record, and picking it up to see the book, fascinated as I am by my own Norse heritage, I found no place to put it. It was some small stone artifact, I'm sure, or perhaps a bit of well-preserved pottery. I shouldn't guess, since I'm far removed from the expert in the room, my dear. Getting on with the book in one hand and the shard in the other, I found myself more and more indisposed by my juggling act until I gave up and placed the dull brown antiquity into my shirt pocket. You must believe that I intended the act to be purely temporary. Alas, the shard stayed in my pocket until I returned home, heavier for the thought that my ancestors had--even temporarily--destabilized the natural order of things with the unexpected consequences of their more obvious goals.
I'm sure you're trying to ascertain a connection between my puckish thievery and the more accomplished act you have interrupted tonight. Perhaps a bit of Viking pillage, even? Give me a little credit for subtlety, please.
I discovered the bit of ancient earth in my shirt pocket when I was preparing to drop a few items at the cleaner's. For a long time, I couldn't remember where it was from, so it was no use trying to take it back. In fact, it wasn't until I was in Professor Lindburgh's house just down Coventry way that I remembered. I saw that same edition of that same history of rodentia and had the old feeling sweep over me like a terrible déjà vécu. At that time, I was surrounded by friends in a comfortable study. I stood up unexpectedly, strode to the shelf, and slipped the volume from its company. I do remember some small talk of my good-natured curiosity, and then the conversation slipped away again. I rifled through the first pages, looking for the author's name, finding only the publisher's information. There was an empty envelope there, addressed to the good professor. I took pencil and envelope and recorded the significant information to follow up on it later, to find a copy of my own, somewhere. With the envelope light in my trouser pocket on the way out the door that evening, I remembered the Indus relic and had a sinking moment of guilt. But I haven't been back to Sir Ranulph's house, you see--otherwise I'm sure the pretty piece of history would be mouldering on his shelf once more. And as for the stamp on the envelope, well, I'm sure Professor Lindburgh had no idea of its value. I know I didn't until I was at the very office of the publisher, asking after the editor who had composited the aforementioned rodent volume. The young woman saw the envelope ready in my hand and gasped. Unnerved, I gave her a sharp "Excuse me?" but she was already lifting the envelope from my hand and explaining in a rapid pace the value of the misprint stamp, and I was already building a vast labratory of lament in my head for the honest mistake of twinned thefts one upon another. Upon hearing her breathy exclamation of "Ten million deutchmarks," I turned upon my heel and flung myself upon the door handle. She immediately saw my distress and cried "You didn't know--" to my rapidly retreating back. I hailed a cab and was whisked immediately to the University, you must believe me, to find the Professor and return his unknown possession. You cannot think me party to his mysterious disappearance that day, or his mysterious reappearance a thousand miles away in the arms of the foreign dowager regnant. His relatives being deceased and his will forfeit, the stamp in my possession and the Professor exiled, what was I to do? I sat on the steps of Cloysetter Hall, my head in my hands, and my hands themselves shaking.
You begin to doubt my veracity, I see, but I have no objective in lying to you. What gain is it?
I returned home, freed of returning the stamp, shaking unbelievably. The peril had passed, but a strange feeling still held me, a feeling I was unaccustomed to and unable to place. You probably already know the feeling, this being your line of work, after all. But I set to pacing the floor in my chambers, wearing a strip out of the rug. I was frustrated with my inability to dissect my own brain, I tell you, and I went to see my good friend Doctor Antella, an expert in the psychological intricacies. The good Doctor was out for lunch, but the receptionist told me to wait inside. I continued my pacing, increasingly distraught with the absence of a friend in my hour of need, when I looked up on the turn, I saw a large volume detailing the careful breeding of labratory animals: doves, mice, guinea pigs, and rats. The shaking feeling that had obsessed me for hours intensified, and I could feel nothing in my hands and legs but an alien animus, frightfully strong. I ranged through the small room, crashing from one corner to the next, fighting like a trapped animal. I tell you, I fought it, but my fingers closed on a thick, smooth coin, worn down to indiscriminate design, resting near a bookend and the scabbard of an old army saber. It went in my pocket, but the feeling was still there, uncomfortably prescient and unsated. I cast about for anything I could tell was old, small, and valuable. I know how this must paint me, but I make no apologies to you. A first-edition collection of Coleridge was small enough to tuck into my waistcoat. A small jade cat from some Southeast Asian country. These joined my first theft, the coin. My time was rapidly dwindling, and my heart was still dancing a terrible tarantula in my chest. I rushed from my fair friend's office, guilt plaguing me, chasing me through the call of the girl's "Excuse me?" flying behind me. Doctor Antella was nowhere to be seen. I had escaped without consequence, and only after I had somewhat cleared the building did my heartbeat dissipate. I found my clammy palm wrapped tightly around the edges of that coin, its edges digging into my skin. I have since found out that the coin is Roman.
But I suppose that immaterial matter doesn't concern you whatsoever. I tell this story so that you can perhaps understand how we came to be locked in this unmitigated enmity without any intention of my own. Can't you see the pattern establishing itself? Can't you understand my fear, totally without equal, of the biology department of the university, the natural history section of the museum, the ratcatcher? It's merely your misfortune, honestly. How could I have known that Lord and Lady Bracebridge had an extensive collection of murine phenomena from their son's peculiar studies with the Society for Scientific Inquiry? Why would I have any reason to expect Judge Collury to leave open, on his side-table, the account of the bubonic plague, open to a spread with illustrations of vermin? Who could have anticipated the stuffed collection of mammalia in Orenwood Hall? I walked from those places with artefacts, documents, memorabilia, collectibles, and once a loose jewel from its setting in an ornate set of decorative jewelry boxes. I shouldn't guess that the items together would even amount to more than several thousand in value, surely. I didn't think I had crossed your radar. I had supposed even this theft--I recognize it's much larger--would be far below your notice. I recognize my casual name for myself, The Violet, as purple prose would have it, seems more than a little homage to your own criminal exploits. I understand. You must believe I had no idea you were breaking into these places, searching for these specific unnameable articles. You must understand the absolute impossibility of predicting a master cat-burglar and stealing exactly those items targeted by the next theft. You must understand I never once anticipated you, only reacted to the unspeakable animus that the presence of these works on rodents works in me. I do not wish you harm.
And yet, here we are in this dance, me holding the most famous painting in the country, you waiting patiently for me to finish the story so you can relieve me of it. Regardless, I don't ask for your forgiveness or your acceptance. I'm only asking that you understand how the painting of the stoat behind you could have precipitated this moment, improbable as it may seem, and that you understand how fortuitous it is that you should come along at this exact moment to relieve me of the guilt of the next few moments in which, inevitably, I escape out this door behind me, painting in tow, and you stay, locked into the art museum you accidentally freed me from.
Before I go, I'm just curious: which do you fancy yourself as? The foreign rat, or the native mouse? I suppose it doesn't matter. Good day, my fortuitous friend.
As I was saying, the Violet: the story begins somewhat cooly, somewhat coincidentally, as it turns out. I was in Sir Ranulph's house, as I recall, a somewhat stately and short-ceilinged mansion, a brickwork skeleton with a stone façade. There was something insignificant about the way he handled his artifacts, actually. I remember finding an ancient bit of Indus River civilization leaning up against a book about British mice having been nearly exterminated by the arrival of the Norwegian rat, at least, according to the archeological record, and picking it up to see the book, fascinated as I am by my own Norse heritage, I found no place to put it. It was some small stone artifact, I'm sure, or perhaps a bit of well-preserved pottery. I shouldn't guess, since I'm far removed from the expert in the room, my dear. Getting on with the book in one hand and the shard in the other, I found myself more and more indisposed by my juggling act until I gave up and placed the dull brown antiquity into my shirt pocket. You must believe that I intended the act to be purely temporary. Alas, the shard stayed in my pocket until I returned home, heavier for the thought that my ancestors had--even temporarily--destabilized the natural order of things with the unexpected consequences of their more obvious goals.
I'm sure you're trying to ascertain a connection between my puckish thievery and the more accomplished act you have interrupted tonight. Perhaps a bit of Viking pillage, even? Give me a little credit for subtlety, please.
I discovered the bit of ancient earth in my shirt pocket when I was preparing to drop a few items at the cleaner's. For a long time, I couldn't remember where it was from, so it was no use trying to take it back. In fact, it wasn't until I was in Professor Lindburgh's house just down Coventry way that I remembered. I saw that same edition of that same history of rodentia and had the old feeling sweep over me like a terrible déjà vécu. At that time, I was surrounded by friends in a comfortable study. I stood up unexpectedly, strode to the shelf, and slipped the volume from its company. I do remember some small talk of my good-natured curiosity, and then the conversation slipped away again. I rifled through the first pages, looking for the author's name, finding only the publisher's information. There was an empty envelope there, addressed to the good professor. I took pencil and envelope and recorded the significant information to follow up on it later, to find a copy of my own, somewhere. With the envelope light in my trouser pocket on the way out the door that evening, I remembered the Indus relic and had a sinking moment of guilt. But I haven't been back to Sir Ranulph's house, you see--otherwise I'm sure the pretty piece of history would be mouldering on his shelf once more. And as for the stamp on the envelope, well, I'm sure Professor Lindburgh had no idea of its value. I know I didn't until I was at the very office of the publisher, asking after the editor who had composited the aforementioned rodent volume. The young woman saw the envelope ready in my hand and gasped. Unnerved, I gave her a sharp "Excuse me?" but she was already lifting the envelope from my hand and explaining in a rapid pace the value of the misprint stamp, and I was already building a vast labratory of lament in my head for the honest mistake of twinned thefts one upon another. Upon hearing her breathy exclamation of "Ten million deutchmarks," I turned upon my heel and flung myself upon the door handle. She immediately saw my distress and cried "You didn't know--" to my rapidly retreating back. I hailed a cab and was whisked immediately to the University, you must believe me, to find the Professor and return his unknown possession. You cannot think me party to his mysterious disappearance that day, or his mysterious reappearance a thousand miles away in the arms of the foreign dowager regnant. His relatives being deceased and his will forfeit, the stamp in my possession and the Professor exiled, what was I to do? I sat on the steps of Cloysetter Hall, my head in my hands, and my hands themselves shaking.
You begin to doubt my veracity, I see, but I have no objective in lying to you. What gain is it?
I returned home, freed of returning the stamp, shaking unbelievably. The peril had passed, but a strange feeling still held me, a feeling I was unaccustomed to and unable to place. You probably already know the feeling, this being your line of work, after all. But I set to pacing the floor in my chambers, wearing a strip out of the rug. I was frustrated with my inability to dissect my own brain, I tell you, and I went to see my good friend Doctor Antella, an expert in the psychological intricacies. The good Doctor was out for lunch, but the receptionist told me to wait inside. I continued my pacing, increasingly distraught with the absence of a friend in my hour of need, when I looked up on the turn, I saw a large volume detailing the careful breeding of labratory animals: doves, mice, guinea pigs, and rats. The shaking feeling that had obsessed me for hours intensified, and I could feel nothing in my hands and legs but an alien animus, frightfully strong. I ranged through the small room, crashing from one corner to the next, fighting like a trapped animal. I tell you, I fought it, but my fingers closed on a thick, smooth coin, worn down to indiscriminate design, resting near a bookend and the scabbard of an old army saber. It went in my pocket, but the feeling was still there, uncomfortably prescient and unsated. I cast about for anything I could tell was old, small, and valuable. I know how this must paint me, but I make no apologies to you. A first-edition collection of Coleridge was small enough to tuck into my waistcoat. A small jade cat from some Southeast Asian country. These joined my first theft, the coin. My time was rapidly dwindling, and my heart was still dancing a terrible tarantula in my chest. I rushed from my fair friend's office, guilt plaguing me, chasing me through the call of the girl's "Excuse me?" flying behind me. Doctor Antella was nowhere to be seen. I had escaped without consequence, and only after I had somewhat cleared the building did my heartbeat dissipate. I found my clammy palm wrapped tightly around the edges of that coin, its edges digging into my skin. I have since found out that the coin is Roman.
But I suppose that immaterial matter doesn't concern you whatsoever. I tell this story so that you can perhaps understand how we came to be locked in this unmitigated enmity without any intention of my own. Can't you see the pattern establishing itself? Can't you understand my fear, totally without equal, of the biology department of the university, the natural history section of the museum, the ratcatcher? It's merely your misfortune, honestly. How could I have known that Lord and Lady Bracebridge had an extensive collection of murine phenomena from their son's peculiar studies with the Society for Scientific Inquiry? Why would I have any reason to expect Judge Collury to leave open, on his side-table, the account of the bubonic plague, open to a spread with illustrations of vermin? Who could have anticipated the stuffed collection of mammalia in Orenwood Hall? I walked from those places with artefacts, documents, memorabilia, collectibles, and once a loose jewel from its setting in an ornate set of decorative jewelry boxes. I shouldn't guess that the items together would even amount to more than several thousand in value, surely. I didn't think I had crossed your radar. I had supposed even this theft--I recognize it's much larger--would be far below your notice. I recognize my casual name for myself, The Violet, as purple prose would have it, seems more than a little homage to your own criminal exploits. I understand. You must believe I had no idea you were breaking into these places, searching for these specific unnameable articles. You must understand the absolute impossibility of predicting a master cat-burglar and stealing exactly those items targeted by the next theft. You must understand I never once anticipated you, only reacted to the unspeakable animus that the presence of these works on rodents works in me. I do not wish you harm.
And yet, here we are in this dance, me holding the most famous painting in the country, you waiting patiently for me to finish the story so you can relieve me of it. Regardless, I don't ask for your forgiveness or your acceptance. I'm only asking that you understand how the painting of the stoat behind you could have precipitated this moment, improbable as it may seem, and that you understand how fortuitous it is that you should come along at this exact moment to relieve me of the guilt of the next few moments in which, inevitably, I escape out this door behind me, painting in tow, and you stay, locked into the art museum you accidentally freed me from.
Before I go, I'm just curious: which do you fancy yourself as? The foreign rat, or the native mouse? I suppose it doesn't matter. Good day, my fortuitous friend.
Sunday, August 27, 2017
8.27
Confessional: I haven't liked what I've been writing, but it's good for me to write every day. Sometimes, a nifty turn of phrase pushes itself from the glut of garbage and proceeds into the nothingness, to be consumed by Grogar, the Tooth of the World. But most of the time, I feel like writing is an obligation, not a pleasure. I need that pleasure back.
I'm looking for purpose, again.
Saturday, August 26, 2017
8.26
I'm trying to open this heartbreak to spread onto my sandwich. How much peanut butter will it take to mask the bitter taste? Ugh. No point. I can't get this jar open, anyway. Can you? No? Fine.
Friday, August 25, 2017
8.25
The coils of snake fall, loose, onto the ground, piling with a dry, awful crash onto the forest floor below. The stun isn't enough to kill her, but she won't shake this off soon. What startled her from the treetop? What could possibly own her home more than she?
An unlikely terror lurks above, but it has sent an old enemy down to face me and I have no time to fear it. I have to run from her, unseeing as I fly, slipping and scraping, through the wood in a blind panic. Her fear is above, mine below.
What fears me?
Thursday, August 24, 2017
8.24
As flowers go, she certainly wasn't. I mean, I don't intend on being rude, but the fantastic quality of a star in the early evening, or the slight biting awareness of the first drops of rainfall sitting pert on cold skin--these were not her qualities. She wasn't mundane, ugly, offending, but there was something nearly unlikeable, simplistic, unrefined, about her face, her voice, her attitude. Not toxic, but drug-like, ephemeral, always leaving you wanting something more, more, more, (this set of three a coincidence, having nothing to do with her favorite number, more a simple trick of repetition to increase urgency, not an homage to her obsession with triplets. There are threes all through this, and I--well, to be honest, I hadn't seen them until now. Maybe she's still here though I don't want her to be). She wasn't the slick feeling of mud between your toes, but she wasn't the slick feeling of dropping you get in your heart when a beautiful girl's skirt brushes your bare hand as you sit, studiously ignoring her so she won't know you're staring.
I'll tell you what she was: she was a well-made bed with colorful sheets, is what she was. She was the door of a house that won't sit on its hinges. She was something new and interesting in an old box, always worth talking about but with less and less to say. I've always said, and I'll keep on saying it: it's rare to meet a person who's beautiful in a new way, a way unique to you, to whom you might be only the third or fourth person to have that opportunity to say, and really mean: you're the most perfect sight I've ever had. You're not a sunset or a mountain range or a field of lilies. You're something far less to most and far more to me: you're the smell of an old friend's house or an open book right where you left it or the quiet sound of your loved one breathing. You're a dependable, everyday lovely, and I want to make you last.
I'll tell you what she was: she was a well-made bed with colorful sheets, is what she was. She was the door of a house that won't sit on its hinges. She was something new and interesting in an old box, always worth talking about but with less and less to say. I've always said, and I'll keep on saying it: it's rare to meet a person who's beautiful in a new way, a way unique to you, to whom you might be only the third or fourth person to have that opportunity to say, and really mean: you're the most perfect sight I've ever had. You're not a sunset or a mountain range or a field of lilies. You're something far less to most and far more to me: you're the smell of an old friend's house or an open book right where you left it or the quiet sound of your loved one breathing. You're a dependable, everyday lovely, and I want to make you last.
Wednesday, August 23, 2017
8.23
The problem with the old Kings is that they have always been lecherous and dishonest, always trying to keep the princess for themselves. I remember now, old dreams coming back to me, of competitions that I won, only to have the king strip the girl away from me and throw me back into the game to play again next dream. The game maker is part of it, I swear he is. He's tired of having to train in a new player every time, and I'm the perfect package: willing to play up a love I don't have for the girl so that the audience has become more and more disappointed and angry each time the villainous King throws me back into the game to try again for freedom. What does he care? His ratings have never been higher.
Tuesday, August 22, 2017
8.22
I'm in the business of relentless optimism. My friend's boat broke down five miles from the ramp and a storm whipped us backwards, soaking us and throwing spray sideways. We paddled the boat back to the ramp in the new-moon, storm-cloud dark. I had a great time.
What use is anger or sadness? Life is great.
Thursday, August 17, 2017
8.17
I shouldn't be allowed in public, man. The first thing I do—first!—is to start hunting. What am I, a monster, that I search for humanity to sate my thirst? What are these morsels but objects to me, to be stalked, sampled, and seized? Ah, but friends! I hunt with eyes only, capture nothing, and blend seamlessly. Am I them a monster, or something else? Am I not then you?
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
8.16
Removing, for a moment, your dispassionate scientist's heart, please try to see things my way, to give me the benefit of the doubt, to take my side. All I wanted was a friend, and you avoided standing up for me. All I wanted was a lover, and you used me up. All I wanted was a confidant, but I felt like a case study.
Anyway, this is just to say: you've failed to be what you advertised at first, and I'm choosing myself, for now. That's why I'm leaving. Don't try to fix this, dear. I know you can't, because it would require that you actually understood the last paragraph, and I know you didn't. Goodbye.
Anyway, this is just to say: you've failed to be what you advertised at first, and I'm choosing myself, for now. That's why I'm leaving. Don't try to fix this, dear. I know you can't, because it would require that you actually understood the last paragraph, and I know you didn't. Goodbye.
Tuesday, August 15, 2017
8.15
And we find ourselves at the butt end of another summer's day, waiting on the wind to pick up and carry aloft the kites we built, painstakingly, almost achingly, cramped and clutching at the curling paper, poised on the very limit of human patience as the glue dried and the string waited, watching the trees outside whip wildly in a terrible bluster, only to die the moment the glue passed from passable to passing-good, the leaves still, the grass still, the day still dying in a glow of cloying glory in a western sky that serves only to remind us that the wind goes down when the sun goes down.
Welcome back.
Welcome back.
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