Micro-fiction 12: The Muse

Coffee breath, whisky breath. Long, dirty fingernails. Bushy beard and moustache. Untrimmed nose hairs, untrimmed ear hairs. Ghastly skinny, he forgets to eat but not to drink. He is unkempt and indifferent. He is a genius, a prodigy. They’ll see! He creates, he truly exists. Anything else is unquestionably irrelevant. He is not gross, not disgusting, not even strange! He is dedicated, he is obscenely focussed, he is proflific. He is mixing oils and having visions and existing in a quixotic place, far and distant. I lie prone, naked, perfectly still, mind dreamy, heart heavy. He is God. They’ll see!

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Protégé : Unfinished

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Publié dans Erotica | Marqué

Indian Summer

It waited for me the rain this morning I told him yesterday I am going for a walk in the rain at dawn you are welcome to join me. And in my first few steps fell the first few drops and then more and then harder. In the first few minutes, fully-formed streams flowed beneath my feet that’s how hard the rain fell. Big drops from trees and the smattering of smaller drops on my umbrella it was exactly like the sound of fireworks. But closer, blunter, the sound of mud, of peace.

Bukowski wrote, in Women: « Most people are better at saying things in letters than in conversations, and some people can write artistic, inventive letters, but when they try a poem or novel they become pretentious. » That’s me. That’s what I think. Suddenly his sweet, numerous messages have stopped and I am saddened by the silence. I both embrace and hate how affected I am. By this, by everything. Yes, I have learned to say: « I am sensitive. » But to be a good writer you have to be tough. To not care what other people say, the judgments, the criticisms. « Be prolific » the guy on the subway with the Hemingway tattoo had said to me. But I’m too busy paying the bills. And falling in love with strangers who aren’t falling in love with me.

In seven weeks I will be forty. If Bukowski were still alive he’d be ninety-four. I wish I could have a word with him. Would he objectify me? I’d be devastated if he didn’t. Will I live to ninety-four? Why do I not like the boys who like me and love the ones who don’t?

Sunshine and high twenties all week.

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A fine mist, a grey sky, an unconsciously slower step induced by the bruine the blanket the beauty of a peaceful morning such as this where the sun is not orchestrating productivity and profitability of a beautiful day but the clouds are saying there is time to repose to go slow to lay low. Today there is time.

It is the last day of summer and the first day of September. It is the perfect place between what has passed and what will be, one day of time standing still. A whole day to breathe. A whole day pretending it is always early morning, the purest most precious time of day. A whole day spent this way!

Thank you mist thank you sky thank you fog thank you I love you, Sun, but then I love the rain greatly too and I’m awed I am moved thankful to be so calm at this junction.


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Protégé : The Sun Will Rise Again

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A finger up the nose, a tear down the cheek. Social ineptitude, a bruised knee. People I pass on the street. Questions in my head, and a quivering soul. Catching each person I pass at specific and singular moments in time. Sometimes these flash glimpses become meaningful evidence in the cases we are building in our minds. Against a suspect lover, for example. All signs point to whatever we design or interpret them to point to. And when our spirit is not in flux, it is simply a digit, a nostril, a child’s face, and some salty water.

Another summer in Paris. This will make three. I leave in seventeen days and I can no longer tell if I go due to undying passion or simply out of habit. It’s just that I’m thirty-nine and more than a little lost. Life is relatively easy and outside of work, I am free of responsibility, dependants, lovers, commitments, or even ailments or things to be upset about. I am bored. Allow me to quote myself: Depression is the North American luxury. It’s gratuitous, ridiculous. But this is where I live and this is how I feel.

A sense of purpose. Belonging. Being needed or instrumental in a greater good. Creating something noteworthy, contributing to the world in a meaningful and important way. I am the servant who was given one bag of gold and buried it and returned it to my master upon his return. I did not fail, nor did I prosper or even wager. Inconsequential. My master was angry, and I understand why! What will I do with my bag of gold? At thirty-nine, I am panicked because I still don’t know.

Friday the thirteenth, two thousand fourteen. Full moon. We won’t see this eerie pairing again until two thousand forty-nine. I stayed home tonight. Growing up, my mother would blame her crazy, violent outbursts on the full moon, when she could. So I have an aversion to assigning responsibility to the skies. However, when I am eighty and he is eighty-five, perhaps we will look upon that moon together and I will assign significance to such an event after all. For now, I gaze into the sky and I see rays and clouds and I do not see the moon but I know that it is there and that he sees it and in that way it is beautiful.

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Fuck Fiction!

The only thing I’ve put in this poor body today is a coffee, the toxic fumes of half a cigarette, and some of my own blood from a scab I picked. I’m hungry. I’m on a train bound for The Falls. I am playing host to my funny friend Pierre from Paris. We get along more like brother and sister. We bicker, we tease, and we laugh. He is not an ex and he never will be. What we have is unique and wonderful.

I have given up on fiction. It’s just not me. What sealed the deal was something my current and latest literary crush, Fran Lebowitz, said. She said that when she wrote Metropolitan Life, her publisher told her that it wouldn’t sell and nobody had published a book of essays since whenever way-back-when and her response was simply: So? Well exactly. Just do what you do and pay attention to nothing else. How could it be any other way? How could I not have realized this simple reality before/on my own? Anyway. I get it now. Be yourself. Oh, the brilliance.

Today marks three weeks until Paris. I will stay for eight weeks. This is my third summer in a row and though it might seem redundant what else should I do? Poor me, another summer in Paris. In fact it is a great blessing that Paris has become normal because now I have perspective and settlement and perhaps I can tuck myself away from the social circle that was so important for me to create and the drama that is unpleasant but inevitable amongst humans and sadly happened and the drugs that were too strong and that were delivered to me so exotically at Montmartre and many places elsewhere all about my precious home away from home and also the inaugural fascination and instead just create a routine which I crave and thrive under and run in the mornings and lunch in the afternoons at some petit café with a writing project afoot in a coin perdu where I don’t crave to explore but to finally and narcissistically EXPEL what’s inside imbued by my silly naive love to write and wistfully, romantically imagine my idols, predecessors in these very parts nearly a hundred years earlier reading and writing and living and painting words so beautifully that I wantonly hurt in reading them and my simultaneous desire to emulate, join, continue, empathize, repeat, start anew the amazing and long lost tradition of pen to paper, a circle of likewise impassioned artists, writers, visionaries. I know I see SOMETHING, something THEY don’t.

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