Archive for November, 2013

Hunger

Posted: November 18, 2013 in Uncategorized
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While there’s no real news on the novel front (several months to go before the publisher makes their choice, and I’m taking a bit of a holiday hiatus from working on new material), I thought I’d post something from the past. This is a story I did around twenty years ago, and I think it holds up rather nicely.

Hunger

Moving slowly through the silent midnight streets, looking for a fix or a fuck, at this point it doesn’t matter, just need that rush, that burn, that moment of sweet release and wild, reckless abandon. To feel the steel penetrate the vein, to feel penetration of another sort, I am desperate to be violated.  I begin to invent a name, a place, a story to tell, if for no other reason than to amuse myself and whomever I choose to conduct my dark business with. I might as well take the fun where I find it; who know when it may come ‘round again. I stoop to retrieve a discarded butt from the gutter, light it with my last match.  A shroud of blue smoke encircles my head as if it were a poison fog, and I forget who I am, who I’m supposed to be.  Not that it matters – names, places, faces, stories, it’s all lies, no place for truth at this level of the world.  I hear some tuneless colored bebop coming from an apartment window above, hear the mad cackling of the degenerates inside as they dig their own tunnels to oblivion.  I can feel them watching me, their filthy little eyes all over me, eyeing me as though I were an unwanted gift from a particularly suspect uncle.  “Look away, fuckers!” I want to scream, “Close the window and bar the door.  You won’t like what I bring to the party.”  But I refrain, knowing that they know better, they always do.  I continue into the darkness and giggle maniacally to myself, because I know what they don’t know, what they can’t know, that they’ll be dead soon enough by hands more willing and capable and familiar than my own.  I’m still giggling when I stumble over the cripple.

He’s laid out on the sidewalk, head resting against a wall.  I bend down for a closer inspection, and realize the cripple is dead. Very, very dead. The cripple reeks of cigarettes and booze and shit and piss and vomit and other things I can’t quite (can’t quite) identify. His skin mostly rotted from the bones, maggots writhing seductively in the places where flesh still clung, hoping desperately to maintain some human form.  I then saw that the cripple, even in death, had a treat to offer me.  Hanging from a crook in his arm was a hypo, half filled with things not even God would know about, but these are desperate times, and I am a desperate soul, and anyway, let’s not quibble over content when it’s right there, free for the taking.  The needle slides roughly from his arm, a small chunk of fetid skin and gore coming away with it, but no matter: it’s unbecoming to turn down a gift, and I’m nothing if not a gentleman.

“Thank you, brother,” I mutter as I wipe the rig on my pantleg, clean as I need it to be. Despite my assessment of its departure, the cripple’s head turned to face me.  “What are you looking at,” the cripple whispered, its voice rasping like sandpaper on bone. “What is it you think you see?”  I’m too far gone to be shocked by this turn; if you’re out here in this place, at this hour, when the dark things slither out to feed, you’d do well to be geared for surprises. “I think I see the wonder of wonders, the joy of joys, the Alpha, the Omega, and all four bloody horsemen taking the night train to king-fucking oblivion,” I growl. “Now shut up and die already, I’ve things to attend to.” Pocketing the syringe, I turn and duck down an alleyway, tear off my coat and sink the needle deep into a vein, hungry for the fix, hungry for the violation, and there it is, there it is, there it is, the dark warm narcotic amber dream, the rancid flood of the mind’s garbage, the release of the poison, for all thoughts are poison, and the visions, my god, the visions are so real and so profound and it all makes sense and I understand, truly understand, and the dirty little fuckers run down the street laughing and playing their dirty little games, and I return to the street, still hungry for the violation.

Halloween has come and gone, and this past weekend we set the clocks back. Now we’re in the dark half of year; short days and long nights. The Celts felt that this is when the veil between the living and the dead is at its most transparent, when the spirits find it easiest to come into our world, when we should pay respects to the ancestors and those among us who have passed. They had a whole celebration about it, one that I find fascinating good. I’ve lost three people this year; a neighbor, a co-worker, and the father of an old friend, who I’d known for about thirty-five years. Good people all, and I miss them. I hope that they are well and happy in whatever follows the life that we know.

Because I find that I am not nearly as certain as I have been about all this, which is interesting. In the last decade, I’ve been in a fairly solid place of non-belief or disbelief in things spiritual, read the appropriate books, weighed the appropriate evidence, and felt that I’d come to a reasonable conclusion. Of course, that’s the wonderful thing about making up one’s mind: things change. If one keeps their mind open, change needn’t be scary or confusing; rather, I’ve always welcomed that which causes me to reevaluate my thoughts and opinions, testing the strength of my resolve and challenging that which I hold as truth. Not fact, because fact is absolute. Truth, however, is subjective and capable of changing.

We (and by we, I mean Epic Steph and I) have had some experiences in the past year that have us thinking differently on the nature of life and the after-life. I’m not in a position to comment further, but suffice it to say that enough has happened, has been documented, to give us considerable reason to think. At first, I gave the experiences little real thought; they didn’t easily fit into my view of things, and I found it easier to deny or debunk, because that required less work, less thought. So it goes.

Anyway, awakening this morning to a sky darkened with heavy clouds, I found myself in a state of introspection and realized it’s been a while since I’ve posted anything to the site. On the book front, there’s not much news: the manuscript is still under review with the publisher, and it’ll be a few months yet before I expect to hear from them. I have ideas for new stories, but none of them felt compelled to come out to play today. Being that it’s now November, the next few weeks will be spent doing various small home improvement projects in advance of the holidays. Aside from a couple of film pieces, I’m not anticipating much writing getting done before the year turns.

Writing, to me, is heavily introspective, and that doesn’t always fit well with the whole “Think of others” vibe that the winter holiday season is supposed to be all about. So, while there will be occasional posts and probably a rant or two about hammers and appliances and stuff, I doubt any new novels will find their genesis for the next two months.