Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Me and him (morbid cupcake # 1)
Musing: Some of us are just born a little differently. I don't think I was born a normal babe. But neither was he.
He sits, playing the banjo, pissing himself, stagnant. He will never move nor be moved by the world, motivation, a sense of fulfillment, complaints from his mother. He is the man on the corner, with saliva hanging off his lip, with dried semen on his pants, with an expressionless gaze that stares slightly to the right. His hairy arms cradle the banjo while his left hand holds three stings on the second fret and his right hand lazily plays the same repeating chords. Dirty plates surround him, but no one will ever see him eat, or fucking react. His is shit. He is the smoldering shit of our world; he is destined to smell.
He is my god, because I am his past. We are the same, he and I, we share everything from our college major to our favorite foods and music tastes in common. I know this from long talks with his mother. She gives me wary looks as I twitch and avoid eye contact. She experiences me with slight disgust, as she tries to imagine the bump on my head I must have had when I was a kid, the drugs I did before coming in, or the drugs I must have to take to stay sane.
I come to this house and speak with his mother out of necessity. I have to spend as much time as possible near him, to see if he moves, to see if he dies. Every action he takes tells me, perhaps with little reason, what I will do. Today, I go to pick up my depressing compulsion again, instead of searching for a job, or a place to live other than the sidewalk.
I approach the stairs to the house, as I do every day, but today, he has no banjo, he looks around as if cognizant. He looks at me. His eyes are so knowing that I feel as if his knowledge will sweep me away—sweep both of us away, and the world will be clean again. I move closer, and I feel our eyes grip each other, and our souls connect somehow. This is the best feeling I have ever experienced, and I smile a rejoicing smile. I jump. I jump so high into the air, god's groping hand could almost clutch my little head and pull. The sun rays hit my back and reaches straight in, feels my skeleton, and tickles. But he just looks anxious.
He stands, hiding his right hand, and comes in to hug me. Surely he must be coming in to hug me! My body is soft and waiting, wanting for his flesh and mine to graze, eliminating the only distance there ever was, but the steel makers are demons. The steel makers are demons! And they have placed an evil weapon in my—his—hand. We remain mediated by a bloody kitchen knife that now connects my throat and his hand, his emotions. But surely, when my eyes close so will his, and god's hands will lower enough to pull us up? As I collapse I see his mother's body on the ground in the kitchen, and realize my mother is still alive. I think this might mean we aren't the same person. My stomach begins to growl and I remember I haven't eaten. Now I get a terrible itching feeling along my left leg, and there is nothing I want more than to scratch, but I hardly have the energy, and it would be a ridiculous way to enjoy these last moments. I really want to scratch, but can't. My smile is gone just in time to see me out. He shreaks, and passersby notice and scream.
Are the different really better? I guess probably not always.