saskiya & henry

saskiya needed something bad, but what she needed was bad for her. she wanted to unmake herself, undo herself. she stood out in the winter and let the wind blast her bared teeth. her stomach gurgled at her like a sewer clogged with storm. wine thrummed through her veins. across the park, she could see her lover climbing the hill. snow caught in her hair. she was unhappy with him. felt her muscles twisting & roiling like ropes of snakes, hissing at him silently. stared at his thin black form as he followed the cracked sidewalk. he wore his greatcoat, as always, head bare and chin burrowed into his scarf, hands thrust deep into pockets. she scowled at him, menacingly. pretended she was a feral predator high atop her hill, staring at the gazelle which loped amiably below. with one swipe of her claw. she lit a cigarette in the pale blue cave of her fingers, finding more than one attempt necessary in the face of the wind. once lit, she took an insane pleasure at inhaling just as it roared into her mouth, sucking the smoke down into her lungs so violently that she nearly choked on it. she contemplated going inside and locking the door. turning off her cell phone. later, pretend to have fallen asleep. he's waving. henry's waving. the idea turns to ash, and blows away. he's seen her. she grits her teeth & waves back, less friendlily. she could always run. just take off and leave the city behind. she's heard stories about people who do that. just start walking and end up somewhere else. when she thinks about those people, she imagines the instant of their departure. she imagines a girl with dark hair like hers, walking down the street. she imagines the girl tilting her head to one side, as though hearing some music she can't pinpoint the origin of. she can see a sudden dawning, an awakening, in the girl's eyes. she sees her stride change from an awkward, side-stepping gait to a stride of purpose, one foot in front of the other for as long as her body can go. until hunger devours her and she topples in the middle of some street far west of there. saskiya imagines a rural road, the faded lines of yellow on the asphalt. the way it winds through autumnal trees. the soft pelt of rain on the leaves. she sees the girl falter, take one step out of rhythm, and stop in the middle of everything, realizing that she is lost.

henry is closer now, and she sighs, taking another long, hard drag on the cigarette. she eyes the ember on the end of it. considers engaging an old habit, the old savagery of college days, exacting vengeance on her flesh. dismisses it. she is too old for such dramatics. she has a craving for vodka, the cold sharp flash of it in her mouth. her cigarette is damp, and in one of her irritable flicks, it breaks mushily in half. she swears under her breath and drops it in the snow. henry is warm. she likes that about him, even though he is all angles and bones, he is warm like a furnace. she hates how he talks. if he never opened his mouth, she figures she could be with him forever, but when he speaks, his tones are soft and rounded. he is amused by everything. nothing angers him, everything rolls off him like water. his armor is impenetrable. she has tried. she has been wicked with him, tossed him around, taunted him, drunkenly assaulted him with metaphor and with spite. still, he stays. he is warm. she likes that. she spits to one side.

"saskiya!" he is calling, gloved hands cupped around his mouth.

"henry," she replies, her call sinking like lead before it reaches halfway to him. she considers the hesitation in her voice. she wonders if it's because she didn't want him to hear her, afraid of the malice that could be present in her tone, or if it's something else. could be anything. millions of things. she puts the thought away. he is striding up the hill, red-faced but not out of breath, in fact, energized by the climb. she is jealous - can never make it up the incline without ending at the top breathing heavily and heart pounding like a frenzied tom-tom.

"saskiya," he says, arms open. "i'm so happy to see you." the wind almost bowls him over, and he stumbles towards her. she is stationary, but her eyes flicker to his sudden movement.

"you're always happy to see me," she remarks, crossing her arms over her chest.

"and you're not? happy to see me?"

"of course i am," she lies, and it's a smooth, honeyed lie, and she knows it will hit its mark. it always does.

"it's freezing out here. shall we go inside?" her lips tighten at his use of the word 'shall.'

"it's not that bad. bracing, really."

he turns, faces the ocean, inhales deeply. "the wind is pretty brutal. but you're right. it is kind of nice. besides, i should probably enjoy it before spring comes - and you know that'll be soon."

she grimaces. she hated spring, the mushy brown nonsense which made lakes of every lawn and every dip in the sidewalk. she hated the nascence of the season, how everything was puling and new, weak and golden. glazed with dish-detergent yellow. "soon. yes."

henry falls quiet and she sees him allow his eyes to ease closed. he seems meditative, as if allowing the world to pass through him. at the first sign of a creeping smile over his lips, she interrupts - "let's go in. i'm cold."

his eyes snap open and he lets the smile form fully, a nearly lascivious-looking thing in the lower third of his face. like a worm full of blood inching across his jawline. pulsing. "all right."

she turns and sets off inside. she does not hold the door for him - not at first - then immediately feels guilty and rushes back a step to grab it, causing an awkward bumble of their arms and torsos. "sorry," she mumbles. "it slipped."

"no worries," henry says, gallantly doffing an invisible hat. "after you."

he follows her up the stairs. she feels him at her back like a dog that you can't shake. a banally loyal dog. a dog whose tongue lolls out and whose bark is lazy. she wants to take henry by the collar and toss him out the front door. she feels she would get great satisfaction out of hearing his confused, betrayed whine.

a new notebook

am i an onion, ripe, vibrating with sadness, trembling before the incisive knife of others, until age peels me to the weird hard core & leaves me bitter, tearless? i am coating my stomach with alcohol so that when real pain hits, i will be numb & fortress-like. i aspire to be inviolable, i want to allow myself to be invidious, i want to express what i feel and how i feel it at the moment that i do, without restrictions. i want to be able to be wholly myself regardless of the judgement of others.

today i saw a beautiful woman walking down the street. later, i saw an ugly young man. both of them inspired the same feeling inside of me, a plucked string, a snapped string. the moon roiled fecklessly in the clouds, illuminating them like a flashlight under the sheets. at times, it cast a wary eye out on the streets below. drunks didn't notice it. a sheen on the asphalt, not quite ice. the light dandruff of snow from an immature storm the night before. i am afraid to meet the eyes of anyone, because i know that i will give myself away as freely as i give myself away in these pages. that's not true - no one gives themselves away, there's always a reserved bit of gourmet cuisine that one keeps tucked in the pantry of oneself, that they share only with the closest of friends. an aged bottle of whisky, a bit of crumbling cheese.

i am frantic by nature, i am discursive, long-winded and opinionated, though i am not any of these things. i am consumed with the reflection of myself that i see in the eyes of other people. how many times i have said "other people" in this entry, lacking another word for what i mean to say ... friends, acquaintances, neighbors at the bar, co-workers, strangers on the street, cashiers, waitresses ... at times i feel like my nervousness is going to overwhelm me, like a tidal wave, smashing everything i've built up inside of myself. i am convinced that i lie so well and so often that i've lied myself into a movie i'm filming about my severely over-dramatized life. though i'm in therapy, i have little respect for my therapist and don't know if she's the right fit - though she has definitely said some interesting things -

perhaps i would be none of these negative things if i simply ceased to give them credence; will them out of my mind, and thus, out of my personality. i could be anything i want to be, isn't that right? well, if that's true, then how i am so clearly not myself? how am i not who i would like to be?

tonight i want to gorge myself on the full moon, but i am restless - i hunger for something more, something new. i should take myself & my notebook to a bar and just sit, look, and write. but the inevitable crashing conclusion of that is impotence, sadness, disgust, and ultimately, rage either quelled or enhanced by the sudden & rapid intake of alcohol. but boredom is the other option, that vast gray nothing filled only by the stale smell of cigarettes and possibly the mindless chatter of television: painless lasers in the eyes ...

i am missing something fundamental in my life, and that something is inspiration. i need a new muse. i lack that center of idolatry in my life, there is no one i know that i idolize: every idol has fallen, and so i am standing in the midst of this plaster ruin wondering if my face, too, will fall off, if my limbs will detach & my chest cave in, and how long will it take for this erosion to occur? too long. i speed it up with dramatic intensity.

i am come so far, and i feel i've not yet taken a step.

furthermore, how does one judge the distance from here to there when here is a mire you're stuck in? is a destination even attainable? is here the destination, achieved, but without my singular, defined knowledge of it?

a friend of mine once told me that she felt she should have died a long time ago, and that she constantly inhabited this hinterland, an odd, abstracted place. she was coping with her feeling of being singular, of being entirely herself, and could not reconcile herself with those she saw around her. once you are dead, you have become yourself, you have achieved apotheosis: you are no longer a continuing being, you have ceased. you become a model for the past tense, you slip in & out of memory, comfortable finally as an abstraction. you are inked, set in stone.

and so here i am, a river continuing to the sea.