Thursday, September 30, 2004

Somewhere Out There, cont.

III

Sometimes, you just disappear. It’s the greatest feeling you’ll ever feel. It’s a thing you live for.

When you lie back, and you just disappear. When you lull off, and you just escape, you’re no longer here in this world. No longer in its struggles. You’re not in the humdrum. Not in the reality.

It’s when things keep going on, but you’re not there.

It’s where you’re still existing, but there’s no pain. There’s no anything, but this feeling you’re gone. You’ve disappeared.

People, they take drugs to feel like that. People, they have sex to feel like that. People die, to feel it all the time.

It’s not a feeling you feel often. It’s not something that’s always there. You can’t force it, because it won’t come if you do.

Disappearing like that, it’s how you wish life was. You wish it wasn’t so much suffering, wasn’t so much let-down after let-down, take-down after take-down. Wasn’t such a disappointment.

It’s the closest to dying, but not dying, when I was in her arms, sleeping.

When you sleep, you’re weightless. You have no weight.

When Laurice and I were in each other’s arms, lying there on the rocky surface of the tombstone, the crickets chirping, looking at the stars. We were gone. We weren’t there. We were somewhere else, someplace you never thought existed, someplace you thought was imagination. Laurice and I, we’re in bliss. We don’t know anything then, but each other, and we close our eyes.

Your mind, your mental self, it still remains, but the physical’s blurred. It’s almost as if the mental’s physical. As if there’s no difference between the two. Like they’re one.

That type of feeling, that type of moment, it’s nothing you’d give up for the world. Somehow, it makes it worth it to live.

IV

The sun comes up, rises its happy self to the sky. Laurice and I, we kept sleeping, disappearing.

We’re woke up by this old woman coming to a grave there. She’s this orthodox woman, she’s obese. She says, “Wake on up, now!”

We react. Our eyes come open, and we look around. It’s those few seconds when you’re coming back into place, where you’re coming back from disappearing. Where your mind’s blank. Where nothing matters and it’s okay you feel none of it matters. When it’s okay to be an apathetical monster.

Startled, we let go of each other, and scathe around the ground for our clothes. I find her bra. She finds my boxers. We switch articles of clothing, then scathe around some more. I find my jeans, my shirt, she finds her clothes, too.

We put everything on, quick.

She’s still looking at us, the sun’s lighting her up. She makes the cross around her with her hand, says, “Father, son, holy spirit, amen.” She says, “I hope He will forgive you two, for what you’ve done. Adultery, lechery, copulation, fornication! A deadly sin.”

We say nothing. We want this old bag to go along her way.

She says, “And Jesus, he died upon the cross, he suffered for these sins, so you’ll be forgiven. So you’ll go to heaven. Satan has his nefarious grip upon you two. You’re getting closer to hell already.”

I say, “We’re sorry.”

If there’s sarcasm in my voice, or not, I don’t know.

She says, “Sorry? To me? You should be sorry to Him, if you want to be absolved. You’ve committed a wretched sin, after all. You’ve got to pay penance for it. I’d suggest going to the church, and telling your sin, so you can be forgiven.”

By this time, I’d like to scream at her to shut the hell up, she’s ruining how great last night was. I say nothing, though. These old women, living to die, they don’t have a clue what’s it like to live. To give into your impulses. To satisfy yourself.

She finally turns around, her fat, it wobbles with her, as she goes into the distance, with a flower in hand, putting it upon a grave a ways away. It’s probably her dead husband. She probably thinks the dumb fuck’s in heaven, like she thinks she’ll be.

I squint, to see if I can see what she’s doing now. It looks like her lips’re moving. She must be telling a goddamn prayer.

I say to Laurice, “Religious zealots, can’t leave home and not find one.”

She says, her hair a sexy tangle from sleeping on it, “Got that right.” I’m sure my hair’s all sticking up, too.

I say, “Let’s get the hell out of here, shall we, kids?”

So we go to my car. And leave.

On the way to her house, to drop her off, I tell her, “Last night was wonderful.”

She says, “Yeah, and what else is new?”

I say, “Nothing else’s new.” And I give her a grin. And she gives me a grin. I want to touch her hair. I say, “I’ve got something that’s new, actually.”

She says, “What?”

I say, “Your hair looks really sexy this morning, I want to touch it.”

She says, “And you were calling who perverse lately?”

I say, “Like I said, I’m a crazy bastard. I’ve got a libido the size of the titanic.”

“I’m sure my tits are more titanic.”

”I’m pretty sure they are. But, it’s the way we men are, you know. Especially me, a crazy bastard. Sex is on our mind quite often, especially when women have sexy black hair going whichway over. Us crazy bastards like it. It drives us mad.”

She says, “These so-called ‘crazy bastards’ sound like some kind of cult. I’d like to join.”

“Maybe you’ll get to. You’ve got to learn from me first, the number one crazy bastard.” We pull into her driveway. I say, “And here we are, queen. Your royal cottage.”

She says, “Sure is shitty for a royal cottage. I’m disappointed, king, I expected better.”

“Maybe someday,” I say. “First, the king has to get a good job.” We step outside.

We step up to each other, and wrap our arms around each other. We give each other a parting kiss on the lips, and I grab her hair. She gives a smile about me touching her hair. I say, “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

She says, “You can go ahead and lament all about leaving me, get in a mire and everything. I’m going to go to my cottage now.” She turns, and she’s walking away. I can’t help but grin at her witticism. I watch her butt as she waddles away, womanly and attractive. I watch her black hair, all over and sexy.

When she’s slammed the door to her royal cottage, I step into my wagon – it’s got quite a lot of horsepower, but not as much as me – and I return to my royal gallows, my dorm. The place with bars, where the only way to obtain the key is to procure it by a degree, by paying money and getting an education in a specified field.

Then, I can eventually be king of my own castle.
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