down in me

Read this part last I know you won’t

I’m really sick of me. Are you sick of me? I’m kind of really fucking sick of me now. Too much, too many years being this. Same. Me. I want to be sucked into your photo and become you. All of you. Any of you. I am tired. I think the weight of a thousand hundred million unoriginal thoughts repeated a million hundred thousand times over is a little heavy multiplied by a factor of thirty. 30. These numbers are accurate, I tell you, precise. TO THE DATE. To the decimal. Numbers. I always hated them and replacing them with letters to represent their changeable, infinite nature is a sin. A sin against god almighty, who taught Maths IV at a pre-school level in a small town near Sedona.

Prologue

But now, this time, I want to talk to you about entertainment. Why we find such solace in it, how it came to be, how I came to be such a bloody entertaining girl, enthralled by entertainment.

The horse’s head is meaty and none but fools do eat it

It all started the night that my sister brought two friends home from a party. She made them hot, sweet tea with a shot or four of bourbon and a slice of apple pie each. And I looked at them and I thought, wow, you’re so much prettier than me, your lives so much more interesting, even that one, the one that shares half my very own genes; the slightest alteration produces an entirely different creature, a completely different set of neuroses, an entirely different batch of insecurities, a completely different nose and head of hair.

They stifled giggles so as not to disturb my mother, who wasn’t sleeping as much as half-dead on Valium in the other room. And I thought, girls, girls I just don’t get you. We have roughly the same body parts and yet I ogle your tits and your mouths speak gibberish to me, much the same way ‘red-blooded American males’ are said to think. Girls, how come you’re so soft? so close? your eyes and lips and hair so shiny? I’m not supposed to touch your satiny skin and yet here you are, sleeping in my bed (two beds, four girls, infinite equations), reeking of alcohol, sweat and smoke underneath the thick layer of Hollywood II by Gina Seducé (pronounced seh-doo-say) you so tactfully bathed in earlier this evening. No man should have to endure this. No MAN.

I’m shitting you, nothing started that night. Put that thing away. It all started much earlier, much much much earlier, a long and longer and getting longest time ago. The End.

Epilogue

I am still sick of me. I am sicker than ever I have been sick. I am going to crawl under the motor home now and refuse to come when you call. To wait for death alone. Only to crawl back out a few weeks later, manky, smelling of piss, rail thin and glad to be alive.

My dead father, long-time dead, apparently sat by my cradle watching me all night the night he died. Ever the immature child, I still like to wonder if he watches me masturbate or fuck guys or take shits or paint my nails. Sometimes it even makes orgasms more elusive.

My boyfriend, my dead boyfriend and our hilariously tragic drama. I dream of your warm, rosy lips flush against my skin, but I see your blank, grey face overwhelmed by your gaudy, overstuffed coffin. Speaking of which, you never did come for me. Bastard. At the very least, we should have started fucking sooner and you should have pulled the trigger later.

The people I have wronged are all suddenly waiting in the darkness to exact their revenge. I dredge up my excuses and justifications, my logical reasoning, but none of it helps assuage my guilt, not tonight - it’s too much and they’re hungry for a feast tonight because no one likes going to bed on an empty stomach.

I start to see the swirls and movement in the dark space between me and the walls, me and the wardrobe, me and the edges of the bed. I toss and sweat. I become confused - the dead, the living, the ghosts, the monsters - they’re all the same make-believe and fact and out of focus stories that I tell. I want to cry or scream, emit a primitive sound to indicate that I’m alive, that I’m here.

Can he see me typing now? Is he more dirt than dust? It really doesn’t matter, does it? I’ve got real concerns when the sun rises and instead of partaking of the restful period, I’m pissing time away psyching myself out with pointless questioning thoughts and this treacherous body plays along. Quickening heart, sweating palms, drying mouth and heightening senses, making everything an affront: the hum of the fan, the rumble of motorbikes, the passing planes, swirling darkness, the muffled voices - they all want something from me and I’m just too tired. I want to sleep for a thousand years and wake up just in time to sleep again.

I wish whatever’s going to get me would stop fucking around and come and topple me now. Give me my cancer battle, my rapist-murderer, my horrible accident or whatever unglamorous downfall you have in store for me, life - even a wisp of my own hair brushing against my shoulder is freaking me the fuck out tonight.

Yes, they have thick and shiny dark manes and brown eyes wide with credulity. Yes, they have round breasts, perky with just-barely-lost virginity. And, yes, they do have narrow hips, and shoulders like apples and gently sloping lower backs, and their skin is taut and plump with youth. But they exist everywhere in the world. They exist in other places, in different colour combinations; they exist here, too. In shades of cream and pale and cool.

So why the overwhelming need to butcher them? Perhaps because you think they know no better? They’ve seen no better? They can’t have - could never have - better? You really think - with that small mind, with that sensible car and those beige nothing trousers - that you have a better ‘chance’ with them because they are working-class displaced and you are middle-class bastards?

I don’t know. You might be right. Okay, I fancied one, yes. But she was flaxen-haired, timid and somewhat ill-tempered. She was rough-calloused, lanky, and smiled like it hurt. She was kind underneath. And she wasn’t your regulation immigrant, currently flooding your shops and your sheets (to hear you tell it). She was from a country that no longer exists. And. What that must do to your sense of self! The country of your birth is no longer to be found on any map. Only in history books, and then only the most obscure. She frequented the library in search of said books. But having never talked to her, you would never know.

So, yes. In our superiority and our virility and remarkable civility, I decree we reduce the whole place - a place of not inconsiderable size - to but a wet dream and a pair of slashed knickers. And your standard, rumpled twenty-pound note. To feed her family back home. For at least two weeks.

As I splashed water on the folds of flesh between my legs, the shower head spoke to me: “You’re reet lovely,” he said, with that rumbling waterfalls voice, in his thick Scottish accent. Gave me an instant hankering for a Scotch. I slipped into my jeans and slipped down the pub. You know the one: furnished with what used to be plush, red upholstered seats and lined with lonely, old drunkards, one per table, drowning their sorrows in a pint of cliché.

“Bar wench! Bar wench!” I hollered. “Scotch. On the rocks. Make it a double.”

“Don’t call me bar wench,” she said, but I wasn’t bothered, feeling certain that I had the drink terminology right beyond reproach.

“You have beautiful eyes,” I said to her, and she made eyes at me as she daintily placed the drink between us.

“Barmaid! Barmaid!” I yelled again a few minutes later like my loins were on fire, and she the only firefighter for miles. I should have been disgusted with my behaviour and especially my metaphor, but I was in an uncharacteristically self-satisfied mood that evening.

“Don’t call me barmaid,” she flirted, as she swayed towards me and leaned over the bar.

“You have lovely hair,” I whispered, leaning in to her, savouring a lung-full of her nicotine shampoo.

“Drunk already?” she smiled.

“Aye,” I said, and she rolled her lovely eyes at my horribly affected, not to mention brief - yet wholly heartfelt - impression of a local. But one word can communicate a whole being, and I know I’m wearing this particularly attractive being thin. Her last statement near tanned my skin with the sort of warmth that only emanates from an ample, loving bosom.

Later, my self-consciousness attempted a short-lived and half-hearted reappearance. “Bar babe, let me apologise. I don’t mean to sound like all the other men in here. It’s just those eyes… ”

“I’m used to it from the men, but we rarely get lesbians here,” she teased.

“Don’t call me lesbian,” I mimicked her way, making her chuckle then settle into a large, gap-toothed grin.

We exchanged glittering glances gleaming in the harsh yellow lighting, and I wondered if life gets any better than a willing playmate and a Pride shandy (she lovingly cut me off the Scotch earlier), but soon my roving wanderlust returned.

I’m not in Scotland yet, but I will be soon, so lock up your daughters. I’m aching for a strawberry brunette, all milky curves to make me hot toddies, and read me historical novels at bedtime with her rolling, raspy voice. She’ll keep me rushing home every night so we can scissor-fuck like starving piglets struggling to get a taste of just one of an unequal number of teats.

“You’re so deliciously uncouth, I’d have a mind to send you right back home if you didn’t sit so pretty,” said the damned uppity bar stool, startling me out of my stupor. Felt entitled to his opinion, no doubt due to our growing intimacy as the night progressed.

“Fuck off, ya damned uppity bar stool. And don’t cup my ass that way lest you’re hankering for serious moisture damage.”

Nobody respects dreamers or gives them leeway to dream and last call always comes too soon for those to whom Victorian restraint is but a strange, ancient art form that refuses to be understood. We’re each a mosaic of so many indistinguishable bits and bits and bits, and our borders are largely in our minds, but also plainly visible in our swagger.

“It’s the luck of the draw, isn’t it?” I remarked, twining flesh and bone legs round wooden ones, slyly grinding myself into the damned uppity bar stool’s welcoming seat. Never let it be said that I’m anything but generous.

“You hear that, bar wench? Generous to a fault, I am.”

“Damn skippy,” said the bar stool. That’s when I realised he wasn’t from round these parts, either.

ecause he’s big and strong, but not that kind of big and strong. He’s much too big to start fights with the local fishermen, for example. In fact, most of the villagers would run away when they heard his footsteps approaching the town square. Now that they know him, they greet him with the same disinterest they reserve for everyone.

But his hands are enormous. His fingers easily wrap themselves around my shoulders like a coat to hold me in their warmth. I grab one of his fingers with both my hands and it’s rough, but not so rough. Rough in a funny way, an attractive way, a way my soft skin longs to touch. A calloused rub of the cheek and I’m plasticine in his hand; not quite jelly, but supple and giving enough to mould with dedication.

When I hear him stomping heavily through the narrow alleys of town, I perch dramatically on a chaise longue, put on my most beguiling pout and wait: to see that large, green eye, peer through the window and with its fluffy, light-brown lashes, wink the first of our many morning hellos.

“Hello!” he booms.

“Hello to you!” I reply, most jovially of my own accord.

“May the day treat you most kindly, that is to say, slow through what you want, quickly through what you don’t.” He speaks in riddles, of course. Plainly hidden, much the same way he camouflages himself amongst the mountains, pretending to be at least a very large hill.

He plucks a rose bush and attempts to hand it to me before he realises the error of his ways. With a fingernail, he digs a hole and plants the poor creature in my garden and grins.

“Good morning!” he booms again, as I sip my juniper tea.

“Indeed it is!” I wink at his massive smile and nearly offer him a cup before I realise the error of my ways. He laughs heartily and I wince and scrunch my shoulders at this powerful belly rumble from deep. The immediate earth winces, too, and shakes with us.

“I’ve brought my own, thanks.”

We sit side by side on the humid grasses behind my house. Well, it feels side by side. In reality, he sits on the grass and I sit on his knee, only because I don’t wish to sully my dress and his knee is rather more comfortable than the ground, unless I make him laugh again. Languidly, we sip our teas and commiserate on the state of all things known and unknown.

I sometimes pinch the meat on his thigh between my thumb and forefinger just to see if he can feel it (he can). And when he feels a belly laugh coming on (which is far too frequent) he pinches my waist in the same manner, to keep me from falling off. Unfortunately, the pinch doesn’t discourage the violent rumbling from mussing my hair.

We have many rituals with which we conspire to escape. I bring him honey, he feeds me cheese. We talk about the pointless cycles of flowers, or the existentialist notions of bees (they have them). We read many things (a more laborious endeavour than one might imagine, owing to the generally accepted sizes of letters) and sometimes he implores me to sing. Or at least, he doesn’t implore me not to sing, which I think is the same.

And in the late afternoon to early evening, by the last dying light of a fast fading sun, we catch fireflies for minutes and bask in their nature’s warmth. Because he’s big and strong, but not that kind of big and strong.

9:45 pm - She arrives at her flat and kisses the man on the cheek to say goodnight. She fumbles with her keys and stumbles into the bathroom. She urinates heavily, then washes her face and rinses her mouth out. She brushes the bottom sides, then the front, then the top sides, then the top front, then the outsides, then the insides of all her teeth. She rinses her mouth again and examines her teeth in the mirror. She dries her face roughly with a hand towel. She gets a bottle of water from the kitchen. She places her lips around the plastic spout and drinks a quarter of the bottle in one, long gulp. She feels the cold water rush through her mouth and quickly down her throat, sloshing straight into the pool of wine in her stomach.

11:15 pm - She crawls into bed with her clothes still on. She yawns audibly, exercising the muscles of her cheeks and jaw. She stretches a lanky, 40-year old arm and shuffles into the duvet. She goes to sleep and dreams a dream of mouths upon mouths. She dreams of a mouth which is not her own that babbles on excessively. She struggles to understand what it is trying to convey. She drifts in and out of the dark, but the shiny lips never leave her. She feels she’s lost something on the tip of that babbling mouth’s tongue. She stares intently and then tries to look away. She’s both horrified and attracted by this mouth. She can see nothing but this mouth’s gleaming teeth. She drifts aloft on this dream that she will never recall.

Not I, Samuel Beckett

7:45 pm - She meets a man at an Italian restaurant for supper. She sits across from him at an uncomfortable table and sips red wine. She looks around at people, everyone is filling their mouths with assorted tomato-based pasta dishes. She takes a large sip of wine and swirls it around in her mouth. She feels the wine is cooler than it should be and it tickles her tongue. She takes another sip and orders the penne. She watches the man chew a piece of garlic bread. She takes a lot of small sips of wine and the server refills her glass. She takes more sips of wine and the man refills her glass. She takes more sips of wine and the man orders another bottle. She rests the wine glass on her lips for a while before setting it down. She takes her first bite of pasta and decides she’s not hungry. She drinks more wine and it no longer feels too cold. She takes another bite of pasta, but it’s mostly bland milky sauce and cheese. She soon forgets the pasta and remains attuned to the ants crawling across her lips.

9:00 pm - She feels nauseous as the man drives her home. She stares at his lap while he manoeuvres the wheel. She glances at his mouth when he’s distracted with other cars. She remembers they didn’t wash their hands after eating. She tastes the acidic wine flavour still on her lips. She mistakes the need to urinate for arousal. She thinks about taking the man’s cock in her mouth as he drives. She pretends to listen to him talk. She thinks about gagging him and giving him head. She imagines him drooling around a red ball gag. She imagines it will stop him from talking, but won’t keep him quiet. She imagines his glossy lips stretching around the gag and her glossy lips stretching around him. She mistakes her arousal for the need to urinate.

1:45 pm - She goes to the toilet and relieves herself. She washes her hands and splashes water on her mouth. She does not put soap on her mouth, but dries it with a paper towel. She applies red lipstick to her top lip, from left to right. She applies red lipstick to her bottom lip, from right to left. She rubs her lips together and smacks them lightly. She puckers her lips and then stretches them into a smile, but her eyes don’t follow suit. She pops a mint Tic Tac into her mouth as she walks back to her desk. The minty taste refreshes part of her tongue and the roof of her mouth. The rest of her mouth feels left out.

3:00 pm - She attends a meeting with several colleagues. She stares at their mouths as they talk. She feels tense and grinds her teeth. She pushes her tongue against the back of her front teeth until they hurt. She clenches her jaw tightly and then sighs with her mouth closed. She looks at the man across from her as he sips his coffee and wishes she’d remembered to bring her own. She pours herself a glass of water and takes a drink that makes her teeth hurt with cold. She swallows hard. She brings a paper clip to her lip and hooks it onto her lower-right canine. She briefly smiles at someone who made a joke.

5:00 pm - She leaves the office. She sucks in the inside of her bottom lip and bites it as she walks hurriedly by some people she knows. She takes a hard candy from her bag and unwraps it. She sucks the sweet juice while the candy sits between her tongue and the roof of her mouth. She swishes it around her mouth with her tongue. She feels its sweetness on her gums and the inside of her lips. She pushes it around her mouth in counter-clockwise circles until it gets smaller. She shatters it with her teeth, crunching the shards until she can swallow them as sweet dust. She lights a cigarette by inhaling very deeply. She feels the menthol smoke lightly cooling her warm, sweet mouth as she makes her way home.

11:45 am - She removes her glasses, goes outside and lights a menthol cigarette. She places it between her lips and inhales deeply. She softly bites the spongy filter between her front teeth. She moistens her lips and takes another languorous drag. She puckers her lips to exhale slowly as her chest drops. She talks to a woman that just walked up to her. She feels the woman staring at her lips as she talks. She feels self-conscious and wonders if she has banana stuck to her lip or at the corners of her mouth. She takes another nicotine pull and feels her body begin to relax. She takes a last, long drag and the filter presses hot against her lips; she’s smoked too close to it. She stubs out the cigarette and walks back inside.

1:00 pm - She goes to a cafe for lunch. She orders tuna with baked potato and a salad. She sits by the window and contemplates her lunch. She crunches some lettuce between her teeth and it tastes like water. She mushes some tuna and potato against her fork and mushes that against her tongue. She repeats this process, three or four times. She takes a tiny sip of water and it tastes like tuna. She takes a large mouthful of lettuce as she looks out the window. She mushes more tuna and potato into her mouth, but does not eat the potato skin. She crunches on a slice of cucumber, which releases it’s juice between her teeth. She puts a tomato wedge into her mouth. She thinks this tomato is old. She pushes the other tomato wedges to the side of the plate. She mushes more tuna potato into her mouth, then wipes it clean with a paper napkin. She wipes off all her lipstick and her lips feel raw. She takes a big gulp of water and leaves.

8:15 am - She washes her hands thoroughly and rubs soap on and around her mouth. She washes the soap off and rinses her mouth out. She brushes her large, slightly smoke-stained teeth. She brushes the bottom sides, then the front, then the top sides, then the top front, then the outsides, then the insides of all her teeth. She rinses her mouth again and examines her teeth in the mirror. She dries her mouth roughly with a hand towel. She stares at her mouth in the mirror for seconds that pass like hours. She applies red lipstick to her top lip, from left to right. She applies red lipstick to her bottom lip, from right to left. She rubs her lips together and smacks them lightly. She puckers her lips and then stretches them out into a smile, but her eyes don’t follow suit.

8:45 am - She arrives at the large corporation where she works. She pours herself a cup of black coffee on the way to her desk. She says good morning to someone and her voice sounds hoarse. She clears her throat. She sits at her computer, takes a sip of coffee and frowns slightly. She picks up her hair and puts on her thick, black plastic frame glasses. She grabs a pen and chews on the cap as she writes. She puts the pen down and stares at the computer screen as she nibbles a few fingernails. She reads intently and tastes the salt from the fingers on her lips. She takes a large drink of coffee and makes a bitter face. She half-smiles at an email, then takes three large gulps to finish off her coffee. She licks her lips and pushes the lipstick-stained coffee cup away from the computer screen.

10:00 am - She types an email and pauses every few sentences to tap her bottom lip with her right index finger while thinking. She reads a few documents, then peels a banana that’s been sitting on her desk. She bites a large piece from the top of the banana. She reads a paper and makes notes in the margin with a pen in her left hand and the banana in her right. She brings the banana to her mouth and takes a soft, slow bite. She chews the mush of banana filling her mouth. She throws away the last banana quarter along with the peel.

7:00 am - She opens her eyes and wipes a bit of drool from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. She yawns audibly, exercising the muscles of her cheeks and jaw. She stretches a lanky, 40-year old arm and shuffles off to the shower. She urinates into the bowl for a long time before stepping into the bath. She lathers up and rinses off, letting shower water into her wide, pink mouth. She gently expels the water past her lips using her tongue. She dries herself and applies deodorant and body lotion. She moisturises her face, paying close attention to the pronounced laugh lines on either side of her mouth. She brushes her hair, pushing her long, flaxen fringe into her weathered, frowning face. She slips on a large button-down shirt and baggy trousers that camouflage her sturdy, bone frame.

7:45 am - She watches the morning news and takes a gulp of room-temperature orange juice with bits. She rips white buttered toast with strawberry jam in tiny pieces. She chews a piece slowly and takes a sip of bitter, black coffee. She chews another piece of toast and gulps more orange juice. She chews more toast pieces and her lips become smeared with jam. She sips more coffee and alternates coffee, toast and juice methodically. She licks greasy bread crumbs from her lips and wipes the corners of her mouth. She leaves sticky lip marks on the coffee cup and juice glass rims.

The day it was supposed to snow but didn’t began much like any other day: shiver sleep walk, steamy shower, toothpaste gag, rush coat grab and run.

The day it was supposed to snow but didn’t, I peered out the window expecting the unexpected: gleaming white ground cover, like the day it was supposed to snow and did. But this day, the day it was supposed to snow but didn’t, there was only the usual ho-hum misty grey of always.

So the day it was supposed to snow but didn’t was much like any other day: hopeful anticipation turned bitter disappointment as quickly as the “snow flurry” she witnessed through the third-floor windows had melted by the time it reached me on the first.

The day it was supposed to snow but didn’t progressed like any other day, too: with very little progress and very many progressive but ultimately useless swishing thoughts. The day it was supposed to snow but didn’t was spent inside my head where it snows whenever I want like the day it was supposed to snow and did.

The day it was supposed to snow but didn’t ended much like any other day: with dreamy hopes and hopeful dreams that return time and again, regardless of the many times it’s supposed to snow but doesn’t.