A Little Something Written For School

It’s What’s Inside

Charles Manson visited me in a dream last night. This was particularly unusual because I don’t dream very often– not this vividly, anyway, and not after smoking the equivalent of six or seven joints.

I knew it was a dream and not a Christmas Carol-type visitation because I was wearing a completely different set of clothes than the ones I had passed out in, and because he approached me casually on some sort of decrepit boardwalk next to a crimson sea, rather than simply appearing next to the couch that I was definitely sleeping on.

He introduced himself as Jesus Christ, as he was known to do, according to the Wikipedia article I’d been reviewing the day before. That caught me off-guard for just a second, but I could tell that it was Charles Manson and not Jesus Jesus because I’d seen Charlie’s picture before, so I recognized the swastika on his forehead, and because Jesus was black. I’m a half-white, half-Filipino ex-altar boy, and I even I’m willing to admit it.

He told me that I was a beautiful person, and that I had a lot of love inside of me that he wanted to gauge out. My face went hot, and I thanked him.

“Ditto”, I said. I wasn’t lying, either. I’ll admit that he was very attractive. I’m into that whole hippie, free-love, “creative” look, and Charlie’s dream version had the added benefit of actually being from San Francisco in the ‘60s. That is, rather than the now-popular, 40^th-Anniversary reissue of the same style that my usual suitors tend to sport. I’m a sucker for authenticity.

He continued to grin wildly at me as I blushed and shuffled my left foot. I took tap lessons for almost two years during elementary school (I adored the shiny shoes and even the pink leotards, which Miss Gruvin said weren’t required for boys), when I say shuffled, I really mean shuffled. I even did a few flap-ball-change-kick buffalo steps that sounded pretty good on the wooden walkway, and Charlie seemed to enjoy it, though he mostly stared super wide-eyed at my stomach, which is pretty toned but not really where the action was right then.

I tried to calmly comb through my mind for something interesting to say. I scanned through a series of pretty funny Facebook photos that I could probably describe well enough, though I couldn’t quite recall any back story- just if they made me look thin or not. Suddenly, I remembered learning from a recent conversation about fucked-up folk music with a cute, kind of greasy, straight hipster boy that Charlie is actually still alive and well (I guess) in prison.

Aloud, I said, “But aren’t you, like… still living? And, you know, in ja-…” I didn’t want to be rude. “in…carcerated?” He blinked slowly in confirmation.

“I’m everywhere, baby.”

By way of Wikipedia research, I have also confirmed this point: that he was reportedly able to project his energy and intentions to his followers from great distances. His smile entered my mouth, burrowed down through my organs, and rested between my hips with a twang.

He cooed, “Take a walk with me.” I looked around, and, in the absence of my semi-boyfriend (and any other apparent options), I shrugged in agreement and aligned my body with his, keeping one eye on his sort of scrawny but definitely hairless and toned arms, which hung out from a sort of blue tunic that really brought out his eyes.

We had strolled in an electrically charged silence for about two minutes before Charlie finally spoke. I was glad that he did, as I was about to launch into a story about playing Annie Oakley in my Catholic boys’ school production of “Annie Get Your Gun” and someone putting Icy Hot in my bloomers on opening night when he basically whispered,

“I’d very much like to make love to you, Lucas.”

He knew my name. No one ever remembered my name (except as “Puke-us” for all of middle-school), and Charlie had just, I dunno, divined it. Even for a dream relationship (and I’ve had plenty- from royal weddings with Prince Charmings to a sort of Lukie Does Dallas free-for-all), this one seemed meant to be. He also had straight teeth, a glossy, shaggy ‘do, and I’m a sucker for guys with tattoos.

“Um. Okay. But where should we go?” I asked, pretending to be shy.

“Why not right here, Luke, baby? Free yourself, man. Burn all your bridges. Leave your old life behind. ‘Cuz it’s all in your mind.”

Fair enough, I thought. I hopped down off the boardwalk, looked up and down the beach at the over several hundred inner-city day camp kids scampering and cart-wheeling around, shrugged, happened to find a pretty clean-looking beige towel (with “Bobby F.” written on the tag) just hanging from a hook, laid it out on the sand in the shade of the boardwalk, and dropped my sweatpants and thong to my ankles with one movement.

Charlie smiled warmly and me and shook his head.

“Not that way, darlin’.”

From under a fold his tunic, he drew out a four-foot-long machete encrusted with blood and, I guess, guts. Stuck near the handle (and I don’t know how I knew this) was a dried up umbilical cord.

“I love you, Luke. And I want you to love me, and to share our love with everyone on this beach. So before we mingle our flesh, let’s mix our spirits and let the love just pour out all over this beach! I want you to-…”

“Shhh.” I put one finger to his baby-soft lips and reached my other hand so slowly, feeling a tubular wave of heat roll from his groin, to slide the machete from his strong, fever-hot grip.

I tossed the machete’s handle gently in my right hand to feel out its weight as I walked towards a group of little black children that was busily building a crude but enormous sandcastle. I walked carefully and slowly across the sand to churn the muscles in my ass so Charlie could enjoy the view. As my shadow fell on the castle and the children starting turning to look up at me, I whipped my head around, raised the blade

‘til it glinted high above me, beamed at Charlie and gave him my absolute sexiest wink.

I figured, what the hell. The things we do for men, am I right? Besides, there must have been over three- or four-hundred underprivileged kids on that beach, and only one of me. And I’m a sucker for ambition.

Lest We Forget

While I’m at it: “Starship Troopers” is just fucking wonderful.

Powerful Stuff

I recently (finally) watched “Synecdoche, New York” and it’s the saddest movie I’ve ever seen in that it made me, the particular individual that I am, feel so deeply mournful in response to its very empathetic assertions and crises.

I already wrote Charlie Kaufman a letter once, telling him how wonderful I think his writing is, and he responded with a thoughtful little note… but if I hadn’t already done so (since I don’t want to be creepy), I’d write him one now, telling him (hopefully without being too foolish in doing so) that this movie, more than any other I’ve seen, so perfectly expressed the types of universal human heartache that have plagued and, presumably (as supported by his film), will forever plague me. I just wept and wept. I’m aware that many parts were meant to be (and succeeded in being) tongue-in-cheek, but those moments in combination with sincere meditations on life and death just about tied the noose for me… except life is precious and we really shouldn’t dive off of mocked-up skyscrapers, yeah, yeah, fine…

It’s also extremely funny and features truly fabulous performances by Hoffman, Williams, Morton, et al. Maybe I’ll give it another go around to sift out the uplifting bits.

Best Comments from Yesterday’s Fiction Workshop

“I felt the black hole was really relate-able.”

“My idea of a woman is a black woman.” (from white, female author of black-hole-longs-to-be-human story)

Tip for Newcomers

It’s widely accepted that “early” work is often the best work- this applies not just to artists, but to inventors, scientists, lovers and politicians as well.

That being said, I’d like to invite new readers of my blog to peruse, for lack of a better term, the “back issues” of my verbal meanderings.

For starters, I’d personally recommend stuff dating from this blog’s creation up to and including (and particularly) early to mid 2010 (say, February or so?). Fan favorites include the “Porn AND”, “Momentary Dyslexia” and “One Thing”/”Two Things” serials.

Regular readers (Hey, sis!) are encouraged to respond to this post with suggestions, should they have any (I flatter myself).

I guess what I’m saying is, if you hate my more recent blathering, all hope is not lost. Also: love me.

As we say in Canadia: cheers!

I Have Been to the Other Side

A Play in One Long, Obscure Act.

Calmly, a young white woman dials an 800-number into her boxy black cell phone. Her call is eventually answered.

Janet: Hi, your website doesn’t have instructions for Windows XP for manually removing the virus found by the program you made me download earlier and that you said would automatically remove anything always, and that I should use instead of my five other, better anti-virus programs. Can you tell me those instructions, please?

Microsoft Guy: No problem, ma’am, we’ll just create a new account and delete the old one and copy everything from one account to the other. And that should take care of the problem.

Janet: But if the virus is regenerating from my files somewhere, how do you know it won’t be in the new account?

Microsoft Guy: Yes.

A man in India, whose name is mysteriously Paul, reaches inside Janet’s desktop and fools around, trying five times to load Google from iGoogle, before finally deciding to use Bing to search “mawlarebyte”, seeking a program which she already has. An hour passes, occasionally punctuated by murmuring, unnecessary descriptions of things happening on-screen, and a call-and-response of “I didno catch you ma’am”/”WHAT?”.

Janet: (weeping and nursing several self-inflicted facial wounds) But, I’ve removed viruses before, and I really feel like this is really unnecessarily complicated.

Paul: This is the easiest way.

Janet: But how do you know the virus won’t transfer over? Why couldn’t we just use your program??

Paul: We are making the new account so that you won’t use the old account that is causing the problem. This will solve your problem.

Janet: … until the next virus?

Paul: Yes.

Janet: (quietly, defeated) …

(the curtain falls and hits her in the mouth)

The End

(More) On Yogurt

I think this yogurt I’m eating should, more accurately, be called “Stuff on the Bottom.”

They Expect So Much

Staring at my store-brand yogurt, I noticed the promise of “GRADE A LOW FAT YOGURT”.

While I could have easily looked this up, I started trying to figure out what it meant. I mean, you see Grade A meat, and people say “That’s a Grade A Good Time!” (you get the idea), but I think people might be using that term inappropriately.

I mean, you don’t really even know what happens to Grade B meat. It becomes dog food, maybe. So Grade A doesn’t really even mean good, it probably just means… edible. For humans.

And I’m imagining that meat used in B-horror movies is, like, Grade F or something. Like it failed… as meat. At that point, it’s just carnage.

Just a Thought

I felt weird noticing that my friend’s computer automatically has the Apple website set as the Safari homepage. It seems to be saying, “You’re a Mac person now. You need all the Mac things. For your Mac life.”

It’s like, leave us alone- we used to be people, but now we’re just images. Flattering ones.

New Series: Working for Rich Kids (working title)

A labradoodle just ate my super-awesomely-fluffy blueberry muffin, which was my breakfast AND lunch and which I’d been looking forward to but distracted from for hours. The little girls just watched and didn’t help me clean up the mess. Le sigh.