Come Inside

Transmitter wrote this in the wee hours:

It was days ago.
I smell her on me. Still.
She’s inside of me now,
Wafting out while I try to bury her scent under tobacco and incense.

I’m talking to my plant with my hands buried in the soil. We’re looking out the window together. We’re thirsty.

Moistened, a fine film of mold starts to grow over us. She wants to see me.

I want to breath in the earth. The record needs to be changed, but I’m rooted here. I ask the ficus to pick something nice out—

To wear to tomorrow’s party. Shhh… don’t wake the neighbors. We’re all smaller than our mothers. The ashtray is full. I’m going to bed. You can stay wherever you want. This ground doesn’t belong to me.

Worried

Transmitter wrote this terribly early in the morning:

You don’t have to worry about what time it is when you can’t see the clock behind the pile of dirty dishes, but you might have to worry about the pile of dirty dishes. But, this worry over the dishes could be misconstrued as a concern for what time it is. So, maybe it’s best to not mention the time and worry about the dishes, but then you’d see the clock and worry about the time. Now, you’re worrying about both. You’re worried about what people think you’re worried about. Maybe it’s best not to worry about either. Maybe you should be worried that you just had this conversation with yourself.

Last Resort

Transmitter wrote this terribly early in the morning:

Alright. I’m back. That whole sleep thing is harder than it looks. I’ve now resorted to listening to the Cocteau Twins. I haven’t listened to this album in a very long time and it’s bringing back memories. Fond, but sad memories. I’m hoping that sleep is associated with some of those memories.

In Light of this New Evidence

Transmitter wrote this terribly early in the morning:

At first I shrugged off Twitter, thinking it was some ridiculous distraction for people too simple-minded to write/maintain a blog. Well, given my neglect of my own public space, I joined Twitter. Now it’s down for maintenance and I find myself missing it. Pathetic. A lesson in being opinionated maybe. I think I’ll always be caustic about something though…

Anyway, here is what I wanted to post to Twitter (more verbose and “bloggy” though, of course):

I just got out of the new batman movie, Dark Knight. Holy crap! Heath Ledger as the Joker was amazing. He made the entire movie. Not that this should surprise anyone.

Now I’m sitting at home, listening to Abbey Road, and trying to coax myself to fall asleep. I think that if I walk away from the internet, it will help. So, farewell for now…

Cleanliness

Transmitter wrote this in the wee hours:

He’d been on a plane all day and she needed to get him clean.

She put me in the bath with my underwear on. I had drawing pens in my pants. The ink mixed with the water and swirled in inky clouds – a pocket full of plastic squids. She came back to check on me. The squids’ black discharge upset her. She couldn’t clean it up, so she washed my mouth out with soap. My mouth wasn’t dirty. She was the one screaming. It didn’t bother me. I wrapped my head in bubbles from my mouth. Pop. Pop. Pop. Hippity. Hippity. Hop. I skip naked out of the bathroom.

My smudged footprints gave me up. She found me in my cabinet fort. I should have known better than to trust the cleaning supplies to keep me hidden.

Smells Like…

Transmitter wrote this terribly early in the morning:

It’s strange how smells bring back memories so strongly. Right now my apartment smells like it did when I first moved in, leaving a long relationship, living alone. Alone again now, I’m wondering whether the smell or the situation is doing the remembering.

Source

Transmitter wrote this in the wee hours:

I think that I’ve discovered the source of my insomnia. When I was little my mother used to sing me to sleep. This is an excellent strategy except that she sang a lullaby founded on reverse psychology. It clearly had the opposite effect. Here’s how the song went:

Stay awake. Don’t go to bed.
Stay awake. Don’t nod your head.
Though the moon is on the rise…
Stay awake. Don’t close your eyes.

Where’s Your Spaceship

Transmitter wrote this in the late evening:

Not even Leonard Nimoy can make headsets look cool. But, if you’re going to wear one, at least have a spaceship.

The Horror

Transmitter wrote this terribly early in the morning:

Kurtz: I’ve seen the horror. Horrors that you’ve seen. But you have no right to call me a murderer. You have no right to call me a murderer. You have a right to kill me. You have a right to do that, but you have no right to judge me . It’s impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what horror means. Horror. Horror has a face, and you must make a friend of horror. Horror and mortal terror are your friends. If they are not, then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies.

 I remember when I was with Special Forces–it seems a thousand centuries ago–we went into a camp to inoculate it. The children. We left the camp after we had inoculated the children for polio, and this old man came running after us, and he was crying. He couldn’t see. We went there, and they had come and hacked off every inoculated arm. There they were in a pile–a pile of little arms. And I remember…I…I…I cried, I wept like some grandmother. I wanted to tear my teeth out, I didn’t know what I wanted to do. And I want to remember it, I never want to forget. And then I realized–like I was shot…like I was shot with a diamond…a diamond bullet right through my forehead. And I thought, “My God, the genius of that, the genius, the will to do that.” Perfect, genuine, complete, crystalline, pure. And then I realized they could stand that–these were not monsters, these were men, trained cadres, these men who fought with their hearts, who have families, who have children, who are filled with love–that they had this strength, the strength to do that. If I had ten divisions of those men, then our troubles here would be over very quickly. You have to have men who are moral and at the same time were able to utilize their primordial instincts to kill without feeling, without passion, without judgment–without judgment. Because it’s judgment that defeats us.

I worry that my son might not understand what I’ve tried to be, and if I were to be killed, Willard, I would want someone to go to my home and tell my son everything. Everything I did, everything you saw, because there’s nothing that I detest more than the stench of lies. And if you understand me, Willard, you…you will do this for me.

Changing

Transmitter wrote this terribly early in the morning:

The new jeans grab his balls in a way that he hasn’t felt in a long time. He wasn’t really comfortable then, and he still isn’t now. Still, the tightness makes him feel sexy.

He has a newfound swagger as he walks out of the dressing room. But, I can still see his hesitance underneath his new clothes. Or, maybe it’s his testicles being slowly pushed back inside of him.

On the shorter side of average and broad-shouldered, he doesn’t fit the new male image (we’re not allowed to say “metrosexual.” It isn’t 2005 after all.) I push the sale anyway. It’s all we have. I search for a compliment. You look 20 years younger? You look fantastic? You look taller? You look like the offspring of a rock star that mated with a boy band and crawled out of a pool of hair gel?

“These are on sale. I’ll hold them at the register for you. I have the perfect belt to pull it all together.” I reach for a piece of worn leather dangling from an over-sized chunk of metal, stamped with a PBR logo.

He checks out. I push the guilt away, hoping that his new purchases will sit in his closet, while he favors his over-washed jeans and threadbare t-shirts that he’s had since high school.

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