I haven't written in a while so here is some of the fiction writing I have been up to:
Hey you again,
So you want to run away with me to Berlin? I bet we could find a flat in Berlin and eat food out of cast iron skillets and ride vintage bicycles and have vintage sex. "vintage sex"?...haven't quite put my finger on it yet, but I've masturbated it several times and it is always fairly quaint and fairly satisfying.
Maybe it could work.
I can picture you and I in the airport...not the cinematically-good-looking couple that often gets a down-spot in an airport, or plays/movies about airports, or plays/movies about love and life that so often seem to be about airports.
But not us - oh not us.
We've got enough quirks to beat the band.
I with my chicken scratch handwriting, scribbling on crumpled napkins, and you with your teeth-demolished toothbrush. I have never seen such fucked up bristles in my life.
But two normal kids like us are supposed to have a couple fucked-up-isms each...
subtle ones. We are subtly tired of existing in this pathetically normal atmosphere.
If the world of existentialism and Bukowski were chocolate pudding, we'd place our lightweight fucked-up-isms on the skin and use our fingertips to press ever so slightly downward, tracking and watching the swell of the pudding-like pudding that exists below the un-pudding-like skin.
What about vices?
...imagined as wanting to cheat on you with Bill Clinton and real as eating crunchy peanut butter minuscule mouthful after mouthful for ten minutes straight before bedtime.
...imagined as consistently packing a gizzed-on towel in your gym bag and real as letting your toenails grow till they rip minuscule holes in your ten pairs of dress socks.
...imagined as me being your first and real as you being my first...or viceversa
But in chocolate pudding, all things real and imagined don't matter much. It just splays itself out nakedly upon the cold silver metal of the salad bar. In Berlin though we'd never eat at salad bars.
I hate the noise of those snapping plastic containers.
No, we'd shop at open-air markets and then go home to our flat and chop and dice fresh vibrant things for us to eat.
Just imagine the roasted vegetables, crepes, and salads we'd make...
leaning on each other, shoulder to shoulder
leaning into one another, stepping our feet out laterally from the weight-bearing center-line of our newly united state.
oh the things we would make, pressed shoulder to shoulder precariously counterbalancing one another,
taking care of the other person's Tower of Pisa-body by pressing back equally.
The first few weeks this tilted orientation would give us vertigo.
The first few weeks the fresh food would give us the collective runs.
We would stand as a unit by the bathroom door, me saying, "Baby, you go first. I can wait." and you saying, "No you. I'm fine. I'll wait".
And we banter on kindly like this for hours, forgetting, until our jaws grow tired and our rectums grow sore, working overtime, squeezing, compressing...
Eventually we take a deep inhale, and upon that breath's release, I go ahead and sit down first, savoring the sensation of my German toilet on the backs of my thighs. And in Germany, it often rains.
I love the dome-shaped space our German umbrella creates around our dome-shaped skulls.
We walk under it...us doing our diagonal lean...our shoulder-to-shoulder counterbalance.
The connective tissue in my right shoulder molds around the bony protrusions of your left and inversely vice versa.
They fit together like a key in a lock...like when we have that vintage sex and leave the doors in the flat wide-open so my scream can throw its echo, bouncing from cement wall to cement wall in the courtyard.
I scream in German saying, "das cool", "das cool!!!!".
You tell me I don't know German and should take up French.
I say, "le poison douche et la pomme".
You pour some wine.
My teeth grow purple and my mood starts to sour.
I bake some brie and serve it with grapes.
You shove a whole tablespoon of brie into your mouth. You have brie smeared on your lips.
You are still chewing when you give me a hug and say, "Loosen up baby. I love you".
We hold the hug. While there, you reach for the baguette behind me and rip off a hunk. Crumbs tumble down the back of my German sweater. I probably start to produce tears to match the crumbs' downward trajectory.
It all feels somewhat like a mini-avalanche. Doesn't it?
I imagine Germany's winters must be dark and cold.
You say, "I wish you'd learn to ski"
I say, "I wish you'd invest in a scarf"
If I knew how to knit, I'd make you one. a deep vintage red with German yarn and German fringe.
I remind us that we too are on the fringe.
We are not like them... we are pioneers... we are in it together.
There is just us.
We are two, hand-in-hand, facing the cold, squinching up our faces in spite of the chill.
I hold your free hand as you smoke your cigarette. I blow puffs of hot air into the chill to mimic your puffs.
People all around us are speaking German. We can only make out words like "Doritos" and "facebook".
