i am in portland

i am tired and content and stealing wireless from, i'm sure, one of the lovely little houses on my tree-lined block. i'm sure i seem like some travelling vagrant but, i assure you, i just care very little about livejournal

it's hard to reconcile part 7

i passively considered mourning the passing of my abusive captor and the only girl that ever let me kiss her in front of her parents, but, sometimes practicality outweighs emotion and taking care of this body was a big fuckin' issue. so i grabbed her by her pale wrists and drug her suprisingly heavy body to the window. suffering my body's aches and pains, i pulled open the window and strained and strove to push her corpse out the 2nd story. it made a wet thump as it hit the concrete and i nervously looked to see if it caught anyone's attention. my nerves were all shot and my experience shot from that session of electrode torture. goddamn it. i walked over to the closet and pulled out of my meal ticket from it's cigar box. it had a comforting weight in my right hand and i knew then that i'd never let it leave me again, even if i had to stick it in the elastic band of my underwear. i put on jeans and a t-shirt and casually strode down the stairs to the front door. as i pulled open the front door, the wind hit me with a refreshing blast of atmosphere and it tasted like metal.

i walked to the apartment building next door and made my way up to the second floor and the room who's window mirrored my own, the only witness to this soon-to-be cover up. i kicked open the door and in the kitchen i saw a couple loudly and breathily fucking, drowing out even my violent entrance. i sighed and considered letting them finish but really. this was an ideal situation. i cast my eyes around the apartment and my eyes lit upon a letter opener sitting on a mantle and i strode over to the man who just happened to be on top. the woman, while in paroxysms of ecstasy, managed to open her eyes and saw me poised over the two of them and she readied to scream. a silence "thwip" from my guy and half her face dissolved. the man pulled his torso back in horror at the gory mess before him. another silent noise in his neck and he writhed for a few seconds and then dropped dead on top of his paramour. i was trying to make this look like a lover's kill but now it just looked...odd. i really am out of touch with this sort of thing. i grabbed the knife and walked back to the alleyway. there, i stabbed the corpse with the letter opener. at the very least, this will confuse the hell out of the homicide detectives and making cops jobs more difficult was one of the many reasons i still loved my job.

now it was time to get the fuck out of dodge and find out who wanted me to think they wanted me dead.

it's difficult to reconcile(part...6?)

i'd rather not talk about that. let's talk about the time i woke from my sleep and when my feet hit the floor, it wasan't a sound of lonelyness but a sound of joy. i had a dream i slept, obese and covered in bedsores. when i woke from this dream, i slowly ran my hands over my torso and felt it whole and lithe, each nerve as reactive and sheathed in anxiety as it always was. when i rotated 90 degrees in the bed and my legs hung suspended over my floor, i made sure my toes wiggled sufficently and i even went as far as picking up an old sock and tossing it backwards with just those animated toes. the sock landed on my face and i couldn't help but laugh. that laughter carried me off the bed and made that hollow slapping sound of flesh on hardwood harmless. it made the coffee i brewed less bitter and the shower i took more refreshing. it made the naked dead girl suspended in my shower by only length of wire and a knot more absurd than horrific. of course i had to take her down before i took that refreshing shower, which was somewhat of a sobering activity. sobering enough that that laughter that overtook my dour nature receeded into the distance and left me only with a slight caffiene buzz and a dead girl.

now this wouldn't be the first time i've ever had to deal with the logistics of getting rid of a dead body, much less seeing one. but unlike just about every other time, i didn't want to chop it up and feed it to my company's over-developed racing horses or take it to a abaondened tenement in the slums and soak it lovingly in lye. no, this time, i just wanted to figure out why the fuck it was in my bathroom and how did it get there. the fact that it was the very same girl who nearly tortured me to death just a few weeks ago implied that maybe i had a guardian angel with a very sick sense of humor or maybe someone who thought they were sending me a tough threat but didn't get the memo. the memo whose subject line read "re: she attached electrodes to my testicles". either way, it was clearly designed to be a message but i just didn't know about what. i examined her body and, while she was hung up in my bathroom, she seemed to die of two paralelle stab wounds in her lower back, each at the location where her kidneys would be. the imagery of the shower and kidneys brought to mind an old urban legend but she wasan't sown up from any exploratory surgery, so, she must've just died from, well, having her kidneys stabbed. quite a cruel way to go, maybe even more cruel than being hung. however, i didn't see any blood stains in or around where she was, so, i assume she was brought here dead. i don't think they could've snuck her in alive with those wounds, her screams would've been audible in just about any situations. sedated, perhaps? i'm getting ahead of myself. let's sum this up. primero, i know someone brought my ex-girlfriend into my house, dying or dead, and strung her up like a piece of meat in my bathroom. secundo, i know that i either wasan't at home or this was purely a message and they didn't want to do anything with me, not yet at least.

however, the kicker was i've been in bed for the last two weeks, nursing my wounds and the only other person to see me has been my personal doctor and surgeon. so, not only does this mean this must've been when i was asleep, it means they were able to bypass my security system to get in. without waking me. i did a quick sweep of my apartment and found no evidence of either forced entry or anyone's presence other than my own. so now i also know i am dealing with either ghosts or very, very professional hitmen that, thank god, left me alone. frankly, at this point, i'd rather it was the former.

(no subject)

nabokov said, or implied, that the essence of writing was utilizing the passion of nostalgia to look at our current experiences the same way we do at our past. to see things as we will see them days, months, years hence.

so this street is lined with green-rotted trees and new decay and the sun dazzles, like an ancestral treasure, off the hood of parked cars. as we walk down the boulevard, we see storefronts dark, lit within by the dulling light of new year emptiness. the entire city rings with this apathy, it's very streets are coated in new-model emptiness. 2006 doesn't matter anymore, but the neurosis of this year of Our Lord has an awfully similiar sibilance to it's hum. it's hard to keep your head up when you consider this ponderous depression, so instead, we peer into our half-drunk coffee cups and our half-read newspapers and our half-burnt cylinders and we repeat the same phrases. oh yeah, oh yes, oh cool oh dear oh love oh shy oh polyanna! these sentences strung together are gossamer poetry, some cruel spider's idea of a joke. to eat that turkish delight, foolish edmund. to betray ourselves and our compatriots to that cruel queen, all for a minor desire that was denied to us by our wiser peers. it's certainly not all bad, though. those words taste sweet and familiar on our tounges and it's reassuring to know that every member of the trustfund generation follows these rules to a t, that we would all sell each other up the river to pretend that we're doing something with our lives.

oh no don't get me wrong. your bachelor's degree in english does mean something, like a bird flying into a window. let's not kid ourselves though. we're in this city, this state, this level of dante's underground to try to make a point by simply existing. we are, therefore we matter, says our too-long strides and cheap beers and pouty looks. l'enfant irritable. instead of marx and coca-cola, we've got absentee ballots and sparks or sparx or jus d'orange putréfié or whatever it is

retroactive nostalgia isn't as easy as it sounds.

they said i would never find my way to playland!

okay, so, i get home and i pull into the driveway and i see a van parked next door. now, this is not any old sort of van. it's a giant, ford econoline delivery van with a busted tail-light, a note written on yellowing paper in a childish scrawl pasted on the back window with a poorly-lit carpeted interior and what appears to be a kid's backpack on the front seat.

i have a rape van next to my house.

some say i got devil

will oldham really has the incredible ability to affect my moods directly. i started listenting to his cover of "the calvary cross" and i started tearing up a bit. fuck man

i am also drunk. this should be clarified.

but seriously. awesome. i realized this evening i absoutley hate a few certain people. sorry man. you must be a fuckhead :(

happy holidays! and if you're someone i hate, i hope you die unloved in a fire! and i hope when your mother finds out, she says "well it was no big suprise"

what would the oddsmakers say

so fuck man. i guess i've been busy. i'm good.

but the more IMPORTANT question is how you is? how's work? how's your girlfriend/boyfriend? they seem cool. it can be tough to keep a relationship together during the holidays, all that eggnog really can get your cranky on. sorry i haven't been returning your calls, it's nothing personal, i just haven't had the time to chat. i did call you back a couple times but you didn't get back to m e either so i guess things are the same with you. well anyway i should probably get going but it was good talking to you and hopefully we can hang out sometime soon. i miss our little talks.