Thursday, April 23, 2009

Elaboration to the Subtitle

I hated him.

That stupid shimmering crucifix appeared around his neck looking like the thin gold necklaces of mustached men in the seventies against his tan skin. He always takes souvenirs. What girl did you fuck and take that off of?

The coke makes him angrier, but I deserved the cold shoulder. I deserved the rage that followed me for the rest of the day. Ashamed of myself, but knowing that he has earned every harsh word I've ever uttered to him. We still weren't square.

We were no longer going to remain friends. That much he had made clear when he refused to speak to me, refused to look at me as we, along with the other angelheaded hipsters, hollow-eyed and high, trekked to the Story Tree --- his friend's invitation, not his.

Yet, there it was, a curious offer to go on a late night errand. Modest, subdued and apparently meaningless as usual.

No talking on the drive. No talking while there. I make an attempt on the way back. No talking.

He strikes the match. The smell is intoxicating. Thicker than the swarming smell of gasoline. I love it. The matches are better than the cigarettes.

He takes a drag and begins to talk. Papers, professors, academia. The customary arrogance, an increase of hardships. He's not going to drink tonight. He wants to sleep. He can't sleep. He's killing himself. I'm happy that he finally knows that he's killing himself and happier still that he, for once, is not enthused about this, his mortality.

Apologies. Intense, unaccepted apologies. Misunderstandings resolved that barely open my eyes, but calm me slightly.

A confession, reassurance rather, follows an unnecessary apology (he never would've breached forgiveness for such an act in what seems like a previous life). With the confession, he takes my arm, arrests my hand, situates his own----------- the tears fall. It was supposed to be funny.

The night rolls on. Cigarettes matches. Matches cigarettes. Music. So-called students passing all around in the haze of the night. Mad from study break. Music. The hum of the car.

The disc player changes to the mix I made for him when we were in love.

The talk is still sporadic, academic, neurotic. I watch the passing so-called students riding stolen golf carts instead of watching his face.

Why he does it? I don't know. He questions me. I avoid, at all costs, being struck by the Imp of the Perverse. I avoid. I cast aside. I turn away. The night rolls on.

I'm looking at him now. He's talking and I'm looking at him. His hand has moved. He's talking and I'm looking at him. She needs to stop, I agree with his words. I need to stop? He misheard me. I spit out my reply. Too hasty.

Too hasty? Who the fuck cares anymore? I pounce.

I will not regret what has forced me to tears for the past three weeks. I will not sit idly by when, for the first time in three weeks, I am ardently happy.

He hands me the white-tipped, brown bud. Windows up. Reverse. Turn. Tires squeal on to highway twenty-nine.

Rocketing down the narrow country road, streetlights spasmodically flood the car with an opalescent haze. We become ghosts. Illuminated to the world. Whispers of the immured past.

We slow and turn into a small church. Park in the field behind the building. I don't waste a second. The thrill has electrified me. My body is on fire. Ravenous. He has missed me. He has missed me just as much as I missed him. Why did I ever doubt?

My mix is still playing in the background. Take this sinking boat and point it home, we've still got time.

Maybe not, but the cool night air knows no enemies. In the dark night with the crisp smell of grass, I lean my head back and can't bring myself to care about a thing. I have felt happiness.

Bless me Father, for I have sinned.
I hated your stupid crucifix, and I still do.
But, Father,
I will not apologize.
No, I will not apologize for desecrating your land.
For I have sanctified it with more love than your parishioners shall ever know.
You will never know, never understand
the feverish power within and without that detonates when two as one are
starving, hysterical, naked.

3 comments:

Kate said...

A. Plus. Plus. Plus. Plus.

Get published. I think you are the new Beat. You are the Ginsberg and I'm going to be one of those Beat followers who worships the words you compose. Sound good?

This is pretty epic stuff.

Joanna said...

Seriously, Lauren. This is fantastic. Probably my new favorite thing that you have ever written and shown me.

I love you.

Joanna said...

Max's gift for me. He finally let me see a preview of it. I subscribed to his second blog (maxphotograph, not max narrative) and he's got the preview up on it. It's really, really exciting!