Use the Proper Terminology

I have this problem where I don't know how to deal with boys. Being a boy, I thought this would be easy, but gay boys act more like girls. Or maybe more like boys and I just don't know it. It's not like I know how to deal with girls either. When a coworker says "Wanna fuck?” how seriously are you supposed to take it? Bathroom or janitor's closet? Elevator? Do you want space to lie down? Do you want me to lie down? Will we cuddle afterwards? Will you touch my face? I have a lot of dishes to do...

I told him I was free that Thursday. I was serious, at least.
Communication is difficult as it is, but it's worse when you throw sex into it. The expectation (at least as I perceive it) is that you finagle your way around the issue and drop hints without getting too creepy. I have a tendency to get too creepy. I just think we're all better off by being forward. So don't be surprised if you jokingly ask if I'd like to fuck you and I pull out my planner.

How's Monday looking for you?

Drawing: Day 4

Fuck this.

about microwaves...

So, about microwaves. You know the ones that have the dial to set the time and markers around it in 10 second increments? I have one both at home and at work. And for some reason I always set it between the markers. I guess it feels less committal, like I can take my food out earlier, because it started at a random time anyway. I don't have to follow through with a strict 2 minutes of heating. I set it to 1:57 dammit, so there was no promise that it wouldn't end at an equally arbitrary time. What I'm trying to get at here is, could this be a shadow of other facets of life? Maybe I say I'll meet friends at arbitrary times too, so it doesn't feel as structured. This probably drives them crazy. No, I do not see my friends as microwaves. They are infinitely more important, despite the fact that they cannot warm leftover Chinese food without it getting awkward.So I guess this is to say there's a legitimate reason why I am sometimes terrible at planning. I think in terms of numbers that ultimately don't matter. If I am late for an appointment with you, I'm sorry. It's only because I promised the microwave I would see our journey through to the bitter end.

Drawing: Day 0

So I've decided to try and teach myself how to draw, because frankly, I'm tired of sucking at it. That, and I've had this how-to-draw book sitting on my bookshelf since I got it for my birthday five years ago. And also, I don't really do much besides work and go to class once a week. Now that I feel adequately justified wreaking havoc on the visual arts, I'm going to go and give that sketch of a bottle another shot. Shitty shitty image uploads to come!

Old, old old.

I’m pretty sure I’m dead, because I walked into this diner three weeks ago and my side order of mashed potatoes still hasn’t come. They keep giving me coffee though. Except I don’t think it’s regular coffee. It smells like coffee, but it’s teal and tastes like mango and lets me see into peoples’ souls when I stir it.

“Hey, where are my potatoes? I ordered them like three weeks ago.”

“You’ll get them in another 4,563 years. In the meantime, do you want a paper?”

“Why does everything take so long here?”

“This is Purgatory. Things aren’t supposed to be efficient here.”

“Purgatory is a 50’s diner?”

“Purgatory is the world in which you died as seen through your eyes.”

“So if I looked through the eyes of someone else…”

“That’s why we give you the coffee. Drink up.”

All the busboys have wings. I’m not sure why I didn’t notice that before.

“Why can’t I go outside?”

“You can’t just walk out of purgatory. Sorry.”

“But what’s outside, then?”

“You see that fancy restaurant across the street?”

“The one with the glowing valets?”

“Yes. That is hell.”

“Oh. So where is heaven?”

“I’m not really supposed to show you, but-- follow me.”

The busboy had to fold his wings to get through the doorway labeled “Employees Only”. We were in the parking lot behind the diner. It smelled like grease and incense.

“There it is.” The busboy gestured to two young people kissing in a car. They morphed into new people every few seconds.

“That’s heaven?”

“They wouldn’t rather be anywhere else. Neither would you.”

“Where is god?”

“He died a while back. 1972 on the Christian calendar. We still miss him very, very much.”

“Things don’t just fall apart without him?”

“What is there to fall apart?”

“How do prayers get answered now?”

“They weren’t answered before either.”

“Elijah, what are you doing out there?”

“I was showing this man heaven.”

“Oh. Well, tell him his potatoes are ready.”

“Looks like your time’s up. Eat your food and talk to me.”

The potatoes were kind of cold. I couldn’t feel myself swallowing.

“Welcome to heaven” said Elijah, holding open the door of a 1959 Chevrolet.

She was sitting on the seat.

…………..

……………….. …….

“Catherine?”

Story

I still have dreams about you sometimes. Hold on, this is probably going to come out wrong. But I still do, I dream about you. And I wake up feeling guilty and happy all at once. And alone, but not really. The way you feel when certain impossible things seem feasible, for a split second. Like how it could be feasible that you’d happily work a crappy dishwashing job as long as everything else in your life is in check. The moment when you reach in to the brackish water to unplug the drain for the fifth time in an hour and say to yourself “this is not so bad”. When you are completely neutral and feel nothing while you work one way or another. Time stands still. You could be this way forever.

Except for your hands. Your hands betray your age. They are your conduits to the outside world, they are affected and scarred by what they touch. These marks may be visible or may be misleading. The way you touch someone, the moment is recorded. Your fingers dig into his back. You always said I had feminine hands, beautiful but unnerving. Are my conduits faulty? Maybe they betray nothing. Is that what we want? The naked honesty you see in hands, people don’t try to cover it up. Most don’t realize it’s there. I hope you look at my hands and see everything I am too afraid to tell you. Everything that cannot be verbalized, no matter how articulate you are.

I thought about all this today at work. I imagined the exact moment I would put the thoughts on paper, and I thought about my dream, reviewed every detail. I can’t explain this dream. This is something you will have to decipher on your own. Take my hands in yours, examine them. You’ll probably find what you’re looking for.