Friday, January 3, 2014

Preview - new short story in the works...(not titled yet..)

            We weren't meant to interact so intimately, through the tackiness of deception and riddles or everything feeling like we were walking uphill, were we? Alternatively, there resided in me a deep disturbance that it was possible that the interaction was supposed to secondarily reveal that Friday was only a calendar day bereft of the importance placed upon it by fools who assume that Friday isn't a day of reckoning, but of celebration. It happened anyway and it was Friday, even given the rhetorical question it boiled up and even though others were dealing with matters of the heart. It tapped into a part of me that undid years of missteps, and reset my course, poisoned like I had been moonstruck to fall prey to my wound. Were the cards loaded from the start?

The day was now phrased too coarsely for a pacifist, even a pacifist who ironically embraces the tones of Dylan and Neil Young. The day shape-shifted into more of a biting my tongue calm at the moment when the world felt like someone was telling Grace Jones to act more like a lady and to mind her manners and not play the part of Zula with such potency. It was at that moment of unsolicited Dear Abby miss mannerism falling out of the clouds like rum might snake charm a crowd long enough to mask the harms like an inoculation orchestrated by perpetrators of mass iniquitousness, at that very moment, I felt unsuitable wild abandonment. I now know this was what surrender felt like in absurd circumstances when my body buckled and I circled to the ground shaking my hand like an overturned bottle.

The air felt like it had of its own volition made a glaring error of judgment and stepped on the torque that reconciled the opposites that attract. The mortally summoned opposites in this circumstance flying at each other at break neck speed were a passive generation and the ambivalent angry generation inheriting the problems determined by the earlier passive attitude. The sound between the two generations was like a constant misunderstanding where form trumped substance in a repetitive parroted excuse to delay that came in the form of badgering blended with the product of maddening emotional disconnection. It was a torque that assembled cruel neglect and allocated to the air a surprising feel of gnashing teeth.