I had to believe that every thing would be fine. I had to trust that the end result would validate the turmoil, drudging through every days' existence that threatened my self worth. I had to justify the means by the ends, so they say. That was the only reason not to hang one's self. The only reason not to drag the needle across the skin, you see.
I had to have faith. It's a common word "faith", yet it does not even communicate the significance of the effort. The work it takes to survive the degrading day to day tasks. The humiliation of servitude that paid the bills and kept my belly full.
See, I am not so different than the whore; she whom sells her time, her body and her service. Service is what people were seeking, a place to come and be fussed over, to be smiled down upon, pleasured by vices. This is what they do. This is what we do.
A thing in which could be done for themselves yet it feels so much better when some one else does it. When I do it for them. To them. This is why they come. This is how they cum. I know. I can feel it in their plastic smiles when they look up at me and ask for things. Wanting from me, their mouths moving up and down, narrowing and thinning their lips.
Speaking their desires, I drug them for as long as they need. And when they are done, we are done. Monetary exchanges signal the end of a transaction, and one by one I watch them fade into the sweet, forgiving morning sunshine.
The Canyons
I take Wilshire to Beverly Glen through palm tree lined streets. There's a huge 4 o'clock line before Sunset Blvd. trying to make a right. I swoop around them and drive into the Bel Air entrance, only I U-turn it just before the gates. I block traffic of coarse and inside some fog-gray shiny car some dip-shit extends his arm and at the end of it stands a middle finger just for me. I maneuver my shit-kicker truck around and smile at him as I make my left onto Sunset, passed the fuckers still waiting on Beverly Glen.
I've been driving all day long to get to one place. I've stopped and started at lights for over and hour. Yet driving through the canyons is what I miss most, so that's why I'm here. That and the fact that I can no longer drive on the freeways. But that's a shit sandwich for another day.
I get onto Coldwater Canyon, the palm trees still with me, and accelerate. Only it's 4:08 so I come to a complete stop again. I wanted to be on Laural Canyon, that was my favorite one. Only I really liked coming from the other side, from the valley into Hollywood. Lines of cars would trickle down through the hills, the way gold miners imagined gold trickling down the little brooks and streams of California. You'd come around that last curve and there it was.
Hollywood, spread like a naked woman in bed, show cased by the morning light, fleshy folds, tufts of hair between the legs. Peach and white waves on the skin of her buttocks and hips, nubby ankles and miles of smooth brown legs. Arms tangled around her. A beast of beauty and filth. That was Hollywood. But I was headed in the other direction, and in a car much too big to take the curbs as smoothly as I liked. Today, Coldwater Canyon felt cold despite the sun burning into my left shoulder.
I kiss the sun good bye, and all the women. I board my plane and in 20 minutes, I am 10,000 feet above my beloved Palm trees, watching the grid of city lights pass me by. I take this plane, a bus, and a subway into San Francisco. It spits me out onto Mission Street. A damp night welcomes me back, and I walk slowly toward the street and stand next to a small crowd and wait for the next bus. I've got a gun and no bullets. I stand and wait. They always make me throw out my lighter at security. A shy boy reaches toward me and hands me his, and I light the cigarette I've been thinking about for an hour and forty-seven minutes. I smile and thank him, looking up into the dewy darkness, I blow a cloud of smoke into the night sky. Next to me a palm tree is reaching into the heavens.
I've been driving all day long to get to one place. I've stopped and started at lights for over and hour. Yet driving through the canyons is what I miss most, so that's why I'm here. That and the fact that I can no longer drive on the freeways. But that's a shit sandwich for another day.
I get onto Coldwater Canyon, the palm trees still with me, and accelerate. Only it's 4:08 so I come to a complete stop again. I wanted to be on Laural Canyon, that was my favorite one. Only I really liked coming from the other side, from the valley into Hollywood. Lines of cars would trickle down through the hills, the way gold miners imagined gold trickling down the little brooks and streams of California. You'd come around that last curve and there it was.
Hollywood, spread like a naked woman in bed, show cased by the morning light, fleshy folds, tufts of hair between the legs. Peach and white waves on the skin of her buttocks and hips, nubby ankles and miles of smooth brown legs. Arms tangled around her. A beast of beauty and filth. That was Hollywood. But I was headed in the other direction, and in a car much too big to take the curbs as smoothly as I liked. Today, Coldwater Canyon felt cold despite the sun burning into my left shoulder.
I kiss the sun good bye, and all the women. I board my plane and in 20 minutes, I am 10,000 feet above my beloved Palm trees, watching the grid of city lights pass me by. I take this plane, a bus, and a subway into San Francisco. It spits me out onto Mission Street. A damp night welcomes me back, and I walk slowly toward the street and stand next to a small crowd and wait for the next bus. I've got a gun and no bullets. I stand and wait. They always make me throw out my lighter at security. A shy boy reaches toward me and hands me his, and I light the cigarette I've been thinking about for an hour and forty-seven minutes. I smile and thank him, looking up into the dewy darkness, I blow a cloud of smoke into the night sky. Next to me a palm tree is reaching into the heavens.
Being Write
If only we could stop all this talking.
If I could explain myself only with pen and paper I could get a lot more done.
A lot more across.
But I can't. In the midst of an arguement, I wish I could pull out pen and paper.
Or those giant poster size writing pads you see in meeting rooms of big companies.
Men and women drawing charts and diagrams, writing "main ideas" and "goal oriented projects".
Words like "the big picture" and "the bottom line" written on them, with arrows and lines
criss crossing from idea bubble to idea bubble. Those pads would be perfect.
Instead of discussing our feelings or processing our emotions through "talks" or "meetings" we would bring out these giant note pads and screech those markers left, right, up, down and diagnal until we got our point across.
We could flip the page when we ran out of room with one big swoop of the arm, and continue our rant. Or easily refer back a few pages to a previous arguement only to strengthen our current one. I could map my feelings through a flow chart and keep my ideas straight, understand the process by which I get to a certain feeling or action. If this were possible I could easily make my self understood. I could easily communicate the ideas and emotions that sit trapped in my body.
But I can't.
I am forced to use words.
They get caught in my throat
when they form at all.
And I choke.
My ideas get tangled up in an elaborate web of cords, string and wire.
I spend most of my time trying to free my arms and legs from the complexity of emotions, sentiments tethered around my body restricting mobility.
Thought
to words
to mouth.
I studder.
If I could explain myself only with pen and paper I could get a lot more done.
A lot more across.
But I can't. In the midst of an arguement, I wish I could pull out pen and paper.
Or those giant poster size writing pads you see in meeting rooms of big companies.
Men and women drawing charts and diagrams, writing "main ideas" and "goal oriented projects".
Words like "the big picture" and "the bottom line" written on them, with arrows and lines
criss crossing from idea bubble to idea bubble. Those pads would be perfect.
Instead of discussing our feelings or processing our emotions through "talks" or "meetings" we would bring out these giant note pads and screech those markers left, right, up, down and diagnal until we got our point across.
We could flip the page when we ran out of room with one big swoop of the arm, and continue our rant. Or easily refer back a few pages to a previous arguement only to strengthen our current one. I could map my feelings through a flow chart and keep my ideas straight, understand the process by which I get to a certain feeling or action. If this were possible I could easily make my self understood. I could easily communicate the ideas and emotions that sit trapped in my body.
But I can't.
I am forced to use words.
They get caught in my throat
when they form at all.
And I choke.
My ideas get tangled up in an elaborate web of cords, string and wire.
I spend most of my time trying to free my arms and legs from the complexity of emotions, sentiments tethered around my body restricting mobility.
Thought
to words
to mouth.
I studder.
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