tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-247424532024-03-14T18:42:41.799+08:00rollerfinkokayrollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.comBlogger271125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-40341218898475372092013-07-14T09:08:00.000+08:002014-10-17T00:02:18.768+08:00Cry Quietly<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
I will not always cry quietly when you kiss me. One day or in the night I will be brave. I will cave in your hollow skull with a hammer or with my bare hands I will tear the flesh away from the bones in your arms. You will kiss me, not with those vacant open eyes, not like a dog that is hungry and then so quickly satiated. My teeth will pinch the meat of your lips until there is blood and I will taste the iron as it replaces the air inside of my mouth. I will pull you closer, tight, and suck all the breath from your lungs and my heart will pump again. My nails will dig deep, splitting your skin. From the nape of your neck I will unzip you, down your spine, until your insides have spilled at my feet. Like this, finally, I will live and I will be free.rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-61738484380072775982012-09-10T01:35:00.002+08:002012-09-10T01:40:41.859+08:00You Will Find Me / I Will Find You<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
You will find me, here, naked and blank, pale, drowned beneath these sheets of blood. Close my eyes, they are empty, I will sleep. Do not kiss my lips. They are cold, cracked. Cover my face. I am nothing and isn't nothing better?<br />
.<br />
You will find me, swinging from this tree, a lonely child. I am nobody and the sky is not mine. I could never feel the sand under my feet. I am sorry. This dead face will be with you now, always, and that is more than I have ever had.<br />
.<br />
You will find me, your son, upstairs; the bang has interrupted your dinner party. I'm a mess, but do not be embarrassed. It hurt, mother, just briefly; do you know about pain? I have known it only.<br />
.<br />
You will find me, early, down here in the garage, in the car. I am wearing my best but I have vomited. It is not how I imagined or maybe it is because that is everything. You have seen me struggle; the air does not fill my lungs easily. I couldn't hold your hand a single time more without crushing it, wholly. But I have not choked down this foul air for you. This is me submerging into the ocean. It is the only way I know how to breath.<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
I will kiss your dead face until you are alive again. I will scream into your ears and there will be blood. I will tell you that nothing is not better. I will love you like I do and I will look down into the bottom of your eyes and see more than you have ever seen.<br />
.<br />
I will find out your name and I will cry for you. This is my tree now.<br />
.<br />
Son, I will drop to my knees and I will pray. I have made mistakes in my life, so many, and this is certainly my punishment. But you have a brother and a sister and, my dear, the carpets are completely ruined. You must know there are practicalities in living.<br />
.<br />
What have you done? Reach for me, the bones in my hands are strong. Open your mouth, I will breathe into your lungs with my own air. Let us be at least together. rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-76963881250385699702012-09-02T09:41:00.000+08:002012-09-10T01:35:43.842+08:00Across the Page<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
My neighbours make love maybe one out of every two or three weekends; Saturday night, sometimes Sunday morning. I listen and I draw them in that moment behind my bedroom wall with my pencil. She is on top and her hair sprawls wildly across the page. Her teeth draw blood from her bottom lip. That face, he cups her breasts, mashing and pinching with his large hands.<br />
<br />
I see her on the lift most mornings, we say hello and I see him at the mailboxes. I draw them in those moments, too, later, from memory. I sketch her hair, long and straight, and the run that stretches down the calf of her stockings. Her wide smile, the lipstick on her teeth. Him, fumbling his keys, struggling to manipulate the tiny mailbox lock. I start with his face, centred on the page. It lacks the symmetry of hers. His forehead, his mouth, contort with frustration and a hint of sadness in that instant before he notices me. We talk about football, about cricket.<br />
<br />
I draw them eating, also, together at a local restaurant. I haven't seen them there, but I imagine him ordering pizza with bacon on it, and her spinach lasagne with a shared garlic bread; it's Italian. His thick fingers clutch a grease-stained serviette, they cover his mouth completely. His eyes, shifted left, glance at the waitress. She kisses a glass of red, head back, eyes not fixed on anything. I part her hair down the middle, and with my pencil I caress the fingers on her spare hand as they stir the ice in his water glass. <br />
<br />
Lately I have been drawing them alone more frequently. He runs. His tight fists punch the air and beads of sweat drip down his face like big fat tears. His mouth hangs wide open. She sits at a desk, in her pyjamas, writing letters longhand. A stray hair falls onto her sleeve. Her lips, naked, shade themselves red; the only colour besides grey on my page.<br />
<br />
One day I will invite them to my apartment to view my collection of them. They will laugh at first, hold hands, kiss, they will point. Then slowly they will understand and I will be ready with my pencil and my paper. This will be my final drawing.rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-87966158514833622582012-08-20T23:08:00.001+08:002012-08-20T23:11:20.404+08:00Lies in You<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnbia4UzLta9-VkyCcoLBE8tP93WeUilbyrXao1Tt0K1eTbdxQT0SePu9EcCzgamfIHp_v37kZWZLzRwytXKKt_LYdnnnTDegWk-FP-zJgy9T9eEI3Q1B6TxGztP-3bN54xTxZQw/s1600/rainy-day-cigarette-holder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnbia4UzLta9-VkyCcoLBE8tP93WeUilbyrXao1Tt0K1eTbdxQT0SePu9EcCzgamfIHp_v37kZWZLzRwytXKKt_LYdnnnTDegWk-FP-zJgy9T9eEI3Q1B6TxGztP-3bN54xTxZQw/s320/rainy-day-cigarette-holder.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
He smokes the tiniest cigarettes. He's smoking one now. It's so tiny and she stares at it thinking about how tiny it is. Her mind is consumed with its utter tininess. Why is it so tiny? Why does he pinch his fingers so tight? Why does he purse his lips like that?<br />
<br />
He exhales now, slowly, but there is barely any smoke on account of how tiny the cigarette is. It's mainly just his warm breath. Air slightly heavier than the other air and she feels it on her cheek. Is he talking? There are words, they are small and they drift over her and around. She can smell them.<br />
<br />
"What are you saying?" she asks, still thinking about that cigarette. It's even smaller now. Tinier than even before. His eyes are closed.<br />
<br />
"I see it," he says. "That thing that lies in you."<br />
<br />
He's laughing now, he's crying.<br />
<br />
"All this time," he says. "These days and these nights. These hours in bed and in the kitchen, watching TV and inside of you. All I could ever see was yellow, the sun. You were always the sun. But here, right here, now, out here under the sky I see it."<br />
<br />
She takes a cigarette from her own pack. It seems gigantic in comparison. It dominates her hands and her mouth and the smoke seems almost comical. Obnoxious. She is very aware and she does not want to breath.<br />
<br />
"Blue and yellow," he says. "I can see it now under this sky. You are not the sun. You are the grass. The green of the earth and on top of you there are beetles and inside of you, I can see the worms. There are lies in you."<br />
<br />
She looks to the sky and deliberately pumps plumes of smoke into the air, clouding the blue. She can feel the weight of her cigarette as she positions it for another drag. Her lungs expand as she sucks the smoke within.<br />
<br />
She's laughing now, she's crying, and with less control than usual because it is hard to laugh and cry when you are burdened with an unusually gigantic cigarette. And the smoke. She coughs and it is messy. She is ugly.<br />
<br />
"It is true," she says. "There are lies."<br />
<br />
He flicks the butt of his tiny cigarette onto the pavement. There are ants and he smiles. He leans into her and pushes some dangling hair to the side of her face. He pulls her head to his. Her cigarette drops from her mouth. It tumbles end over end and lands also on the pavement, that gigantic cigarette right next to the tiny one.<br />
<br />
They walk now, in silence without cigarettes. There is a field and there are children and they sit in the warmth of each other on the ground. They do not move until the moon and the stars arrive.<br />
<br />
"This night is clear," she says. "But tomorrow you will be rain."rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-11535020980286672702012-05-23T19:25:00.000+08:002012-05-23T19:26:58.622+08:00I Should Be Writing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I should be writing on the back of an elephant right now, scratching words across its leathered wrinkles with my dusty, dirt encrusted fingernails, or etching my feelings into the underside of your forearm with an unfolded paperclip. I should be fingering the button of a spray can at midnight or dragging my toes across the wet sand as the sun sets or rises beyond the waves.<br />
<br />
I should be decorating an origami fortune teller with each letter of your name or sketching the gentle curve of your back on the footpath with a child's forgotten chalk.<br />
<br />
I should be singing for you, your favourite song, on the Internet so your friends can see.<br />
<br />
And we should be dancing at three o'clock in the morning, wildly, laughing in your room and on your bed and on the floor again.<br />
<br />
I want to do these things, and I know you want it, too. But today is it enough that I hold your hand and squeeze your fingers and not let go until one or both of us admits to the cramp?<br />
<br />
Please know that it is not weakness that holds me back; it's fear, the very worst kind of fear. That blood on your arm is real, it is darker than you could ever imagine and it will drip, the tide will eventually come in. Your friends will laugh and the songs will end. And you will know me then.rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-3424391201829316502012-04-13T16:45:00.001+08:002012-04-13T16:45:44.503+08:00Touch My Eyes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwANat1zZ44uR5QewTyX5xPABoMOcNH1FJo8uCFdqc7yW_0j5XxBTdlmq7_XCBIn2yZ8xdKh1de7YFaG-CplYSVNHdVFLVa4VkptNn-WKzLpL9DSxOGswazwzNuboSCRSHkqUWfA/s1600/roller_boogie_01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwANat1zZ44uR5QewTyX5xPABoMOcNH1FJo8uCFdqc7yW_0j5XxBTdlmq7_XCBIn2yZ8xdKh1de7YFaG-CplYSVNHdVFLVa4VkptNn-WKzLpL9DSxOGswazwzNuboSCRSHkqUWfA/s320/roller_boogie_01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Touch my eyes. Now close them with your fingers. Feel my lips, they are cold; put your ear to my mouth. Listen, there is nothing, I am dead. Cover my face and mourn for me. Call someone, you are alone now. It's okay if you cry. You can be angry and sad. I am not giving you permission, I am telling you. I am gone.<br />
<br />
You will remember. That day in the sun, in the snow, in the rain, in the car, in the field, under the blanket, in the pool. And that night in that dress in Toronto when we danced and we kissed in the back of a taxi. Some morning in bed you will feel me grip your thigh and breath words and air onto your neck and you will dream about time and about me. And again another morning, the warmth, and another, but soon my face will be blurred or hidden or in the shadows or completely gone. Soon you will pull the blankets over your body, up to your chin. Soon you will roll over onto your back and there will be nothing but your own hands or those of another man to keep you warm. <br />
<br />
Being dead is nothing but not wanting to die again. So take my picture from your bedside. Place it in a drawer. Toss it in the garbage. Bury or burn it. Give my clothes away. Go and see a movie, and smile and laugh. Fall in love. Just touch my eyes and close them so that I may die in peace.rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-80311207858602989612012-04-02T15:17:00.001+08:002012-04-02T15:17:50.199+08:00No God<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
In the future, I'm on top of a windmill, maybe a lighthouse, something up high and I can see everything; I'm alone. It's cold and it's not okay because the only way out is to go back inside where the steps go down and around, where there isn't any wind or spray from the ocean. I have no intention of returning to that dark, still tunnel but the salt in the air is eating my skin and drying out my eyes. I could jump but the tide is strong and those rocks will not be kind to my body; my bones are brittle and underneath, inside there is nothing.<br />
<br />
So I will kiss you now, here in our bed, here in the garden, under the sun and under the stars. I will touch your face. I will close my eyes and forget everything. I will tell myself the doctors are wrong, and I will love you. No god can steal this away from me.rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-67264966462503718952012-03-22T14:29:00.000+08:002012-03-22T16:37:33.993+08:00Rain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAdegPOOfNd4KXuniF-1Ea3Ifz90PyQ2svOK_h10mRhdTYARFucpBHn5w-kOQZFD7xh9kBHrTX7ytZoYEHPz-5nJB8Grk-4aZJqiKm104l8w-x18Qq61_ovc8DlAVfHPGKZAZ8Cw/s1600/trl-claire-danes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAdegPOOfNd4KXuniF-1Ea3Ifz90PyQ2svOK_h10mRhdTYARFucpBHn5w-kOQZFD7xh9kBHrTX7ytZoYEHPz-5nJB8Grk-4aZJqiKm104l8w-x18Qq61_ovc8DlAVfHPGKZAZ8Cw/s400/trl-claire-danes.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I don't believe in anything, except the rain and I believe in you, or I did. In us. We were Ben Lee and Claire Danes, until everything changed mid-kiss in New York. Suddenly, somehow, inside of time, within what must have been only a half of a second or half of that, we became your face in a frame on the wall with mine. Your lips high up on my cheekbone, your dancing hair and the sunshine in your eyes, and that smile I do and everything from that day were ours but we could not move our hands or smash the glass or climb down into the bed and cry. <br />
<br />
I don't believe in anything, except that single moment before a leaf falls to the ground, before it is alone, before it is grey. That moment before the split, before the decay and I believe in you, or I did. In us, then, when we were young. I believe in the sun, before the clouds move in and I believe in the wind, even knowing that it will soon topple the leaf to the ground. <br />
<br />
I don't believe in anything, except this moment and I will always believe in you.rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-74797173052784461892012-03-11T23:38:00.000+08:002012-03-14T22:45:53.100+08:00Two Stories<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj08F4O4kgzaQ29YMU0VcWJw4glFkPTgq3Xe8xIxRkCWsto1GfH1VKwb6A1SJIYIKa0XpXxJgPP-xy6RdAuzk0BUZ98okTzeOB5wyrz6XtUGxqYuN3NstJoCggD5r5hJ3Zx7fK81Q/s1600/ratcabin1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj08F4O4kgzaQ29YMU0VcWJw4glFkPTgq3Xe8xIxRkCWsto1GfH1VKwb6A1SJIYIKa0XpXxJgPP-xy6RdAuzk0BUZ98okTzeOB5wyrz6XtUGxqYuN3NstJoCggD5r5hJ3Zx7fK81Q/s320/ratcabin1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
"We've been here before," she says.<br />
<br />
"Of course," he replies. "We live here."<br />
<br />
"No, not here. Not physically here in the bedroom, in the house. I mean this. You and me. We've been here."<br />
<br />
"Hold my hand," he says. "Look in my eyes. I am telling you that we live here."<br />
<br />
"You don't understand," she says.<br />
<br />
He draws her closer, their eyes, their mouths now inches apart. "This is our bedroom. Here. This is our home. We live in this house, this two-story house," he says. "We live on this street with trees and barking dogs and trash cans. We live in this town with people and buildings and traffic. We live in this world. Together, I mean. You and me in this world."<br />
<br />
"Yes, in this world," she says. "Here. In this town with a river down the middle and a train that goes underground. In this street with a crossing guard on the corner. This house with two stories."<br />
<br />
He caresses her neck and her cheek. They kiss and they undress and they make love on the bed and they sleep.<br />
<br />
In the morning there is coffee and a shower, no breakfast and work. In the day there are text messages and an e-mail. That night there is dinner and television and wine and in the bedroom there is a feeling and there are assurances and again there is love.rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-36021290247477290182012-03-03T23:39:00.001+08:002012-03-04T00:04:53.677+08:00The Opposite of Lonely<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs5ae34SXxhy8PDiW6ecKNAzJIlFDO1-wXjvM7skwXhcVaXccaqJYosJKE1yyoIt_8mShXCfooblI6eTJwOrUH_dJkJ7Dwfkc9MCORI9zc1_Xgu8MLv_q-5eb4E_2AVt6umyLchQ/s1600/wheelie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs5ae34SXxhy8PDiW6ecKNAzJIlFDO1-wXjvM7skwXhcVaXccaqJYosJKE1yyoIt_8mShXCfooblI6eTJwOrUH_dJkJ7Dwfkc9MCORI9zc1_Xgu8MLv_q-5eb4E_2AVt6umyLchQ/s320/wheelie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Look up into the sky, not at the sun, don't ever look into the sun, not at the clouds, they are for dreamers; look deep into the very bluest part of the bluest part of the sky. This is the opposite of lonely. This is a boy in black rollerskates with yellow laces and nothing and nobody except his favourite song and a t-shirt with numbers on it. This is a man, with children asleep, in underpants eating cereal with nobody and nothing except a foreign movie and a cider. It's a girl drawing pictures of people and flowers alone in her room in silence in bliss. It's a woman in a field on her back with a book in the grass in the warmth on her own with nothing but time and nobody. There, look even through the blue, beyond the sky and back again, you will see an ant out of the line on the bricks with a crumb on his back. This is the opposite of lonely.rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-31151772045841875162012-02-29T21:00:00.002+08:002012-02-29T21:00:43.922+08:00Dreaming<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXkur-A-_DAp6nrodGwsq4iFURHpWAKI04-NtR5LFRs_ck9C7deCisRjfH3pWIEa26khrbjz5UNmSilKvDwG0akvADuBJk8pSMhD8UAMXNwISz6k_4Z5ekixmqhrPRUHKooqV_YA/s1600/Squirrel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXkur-A-_DAp6nrodGwsq4iFURHpWAKI04-NtR5LFRs_ck9C7deCisRjfH3pWIEa26khrbjz5UNmSilKvDwG0akvADuBJk8pSMhD8UAMXNwISz6k_4Z5ekixmqhrPRUHKooqV_YA/s320/Squirrel.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m a squirrel in the forest.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's a dream.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m nothing; I’m
dead. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm a squirrel in the forest and I'm dead.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are maggots
in my eyes and I'm dead. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m nothing in this forest and I’m dead. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m naked and lonely;
I stink, I’m nothing and I’m dead. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m the squirrel, I’m the forest, I’m the maggots.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m the eyes, I'm the stench.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am nothing and I’m dead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You are the wind and the sky and the stream and a fish
and a flower in a tree and a bird and a hand and a body and you smile and we
kiss. There’s a fire and it’s warm and a tent and we touch and we sleep and we
dream and there’s a squirrel in the forest and it’s dead. <o:p></o:p></div>rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-83032867799276524752012-02-29T15:32:00.000+08:002012-02-29T21:08:48.741+08:00Human Remains<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbnVp3TMP8w5BBJIDT13LHgg-UuTXsdc7VLa3bhUqlxNntiBRhqyoQMWqcHD4g90vChxuEngfrk43VkanLuliW9b_vG5iotTnteYkfq954WrDyN0HHhBk7TNIwy4CWAUsosYty3g/s1600/Human.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbnVp3TMP8w5BBJIDT13LHgg-UuTXsdc7VLa3bhUqlxNntiBRhqyoQMWqcHD4g90vChxuEngfrk43VkanLuliW9b_vG5iotTnteYkfq954WrDyN0HHhBk7TNIwy4CWAUsosYty3g/s320/Human.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
The machine on the table next to the bed uses its timing mechanisms, luminous digital display, and sound function to wake the human. It is 6:57a.m. on a Monday.<br />
<br />
The human is awake now. He is remembering who he is. He is an angry and lonely man. He does not smell good and he must now get ready for work. The human works in an office where he does things. He interacts with other humans. He uses machines. He comes back home and does other things. And he goes to bed again and gets up and gets ready for work. If it is the weekend the human gets up and does different things.<br />
<br />
The human looks at his reflection now in the mirror in the bathroom. He is naked. He says "I am Justin Bieber."
He sucks his stomach in. He flexes his muscles. He tussles his hair. He tugs at his penis.<br />
<br />
"I am Justin Bieber," he says again.<br />
<br />
The machine on the table next to the bed does not know who it is. It does not feel any emotions. But it somehow senses that the human is full of shit.
The machine laughs.
<br />
<br />
The human returns to the bedroom.
"What are you laughing at?" he asks the machine.
The machine remains silent.
The human is not sure if the machine was really laughing. In his experience machines do not generally laugh unless they were specifically designed to laugh.<br />
<br />
The human returns to the bathroom and steps into the shower. It is too hot. The human yells at the shower, "I am Justin Bieber."<br />
<br />
The shower laughs its fucking ass off.<br />
<br />
"What are you laughing at?" asks the human.
The shower is silent.<br />
<br />
The human finishes washing his body, dries off with a towel, and puts on his Dockers and button-up business shirt. The shirt is pale yellow. He wears brown lace-up shoes with thick rubber soles.<br />
<br />
The human toasts a bagel. "I am Justin Bieber," he says as he spreads cream cheese on the bagel.
The toaster laughs at the human. The toaster's laugh is loud.
The human is angry and he is worried. "I am Justin Bieber," he yells at the toaster.<br />
<br />
The toaster loses its shit. It cannot control its laughter.
The man wonders if he is losing his mind. He gets into his car and presses the button on the garage door opener. The garage door does not open.
"God damn it," the man says. "I am Justin God Damn Bieber."<br />
<br />
The garage door and the car laugh at the human. The laughter echoes throughout the garage.<br />
<br />
The human wants to call somebody. He wants to tell people what is happening. "The machines are laughing at me," he wants to say.
But the human does not have a wife or a girlfriend or children or close friends. He gets out of his car and catches the bus to work. He is 35 minutes late.<br />
<br />
"You are 35 minutes late," says another human to the human.<br />
<br />
"I am sorry," says the human. "My garage door is jammed."<br />
<br />
"Fucking machines," says the other human.<br />
<br />
The human sits down at his desk. He needs to enter a password to login to his computer.
He does not want to enter his password.
The human calls another human from the IT department.<br />
<br />
"I want to reset my password," the human says.<br />
<br />
"Why?" the other human asks.<br />
<br />
"My computer will laugh at me," the human says, "if I enter my current password."<br />
<br />
"Okay," says the other human. "All set. Your new password is welcome$1. You will need to change it when you login the first time."<br />
<br />
"Thank you," the human says.
<br />
<br />
The human logs into his computer. It prompts him to change his password.
The human types <i>IMB!EBER</i><br />
<br />
The computer says "LOL" really loudly. "LOL, LOL, LOL, LOL, LOL." And then it says "ahahahahahahaha."<br />
<br />
The human's telephone now loses its shit too. "hahahahah oh god," it says. "Jesus."<br />
<br />
"I am Justin Bieber," the man shouts. He tips his chair over and pushes it with his thick rubber soled shoes out into the aisle next to his cubicle.<br />
<br />
"Are you okay?" another human asks.<br />
<br />
"Can you hear this?" the human says. "Can you believe these dumb machines?"<br />
<br />
"I know, right?" says the other human.<br />
<br />
"I am Justin Bieber," the human shouts.<br />
<br />
The photocopier across the room bursts into laughter. The other computers, the phones, the elevator, all the machines in the office totally lose their shit. The laughter is deafening.<br />
<br />
The human picks up his chair and returns it to its proper place. He sits in the chair. The computer is still laughing at him. Just totally laughing its ass off. The human remains in his chair and opens an Excel document. He sorts some data and makes a pie chart. He prints the pie chart out, makes 12 copies of it, and takes the papers with him into a meeting.<br />
<br />
"Do you have the chart?" another human asks the human.<br />
<br />
"Yes," says the human as he passes around the papers.rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-56141285226657178382012-01-16T22:48:00.000+08:002012-01-16T23:57:42.698+08:00Lighter Today<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXuur_d7Dxod6wHe21FtcBaN9ld_kfRsGWMtWaKmTY4m73weemJDqEGCV0NCi5tODIU4z0PJxJRuzIbBOm1pSutfSxLpZ_lLGWyxkr5dypHo3TSQRFa6vCNU7kaLU4Og7IBUKodg/s1600/sand012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXuur_d7Dxod6wHe21FtcBaN9ld_kfRsGWMtWaKmTY4m73weemJDqEGCV0NCi5tODIU4z0PJxJRuzIbBOm1pSutfSxLpZ_lLGWyxkr5dypHo3TSQRFa6vCNU7kaLU4Og7IBUKodg/s320/sand012.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
She's lighter today. Not floating, drowning. That hospital blue blanket is the ocean and her body is sand underneath, deep where it's dark, down where the fish are afraid to swim. Down where the monsters are. The medical doctors, the nutritionists, the psychiatrists, there seem to be a lot of them and they are not happy with her progress. The feeding tube is back in.<br />
<br />
I brought her in here myself, physically carried her. She's a bird, I thought. I will throw her into the sky and she will flap her broken wings. She will fall and fly, fall and fly, and eventually she will be okay and she will fly off into the clouds and she will build a nest in some tree and she will do the other things that birds like to do.<br />
<br />
It's not really about food, they say. She feels inadequate. She feels out of control. She is lonely. She is depressed.<br />
<br />
She's my daughter, I say.<br />
<br />
Has there been trauma in her life? Has she been molested? Are you physically abusive? Do you have unrealistic expectations of her? Has someone close to her died?<br />
<br />
These are the questions they ask of me and I cry because I am her father.<br />
<br />
There has been trauma, I say. Somebody close to her has died.<br />
<br />
It is common, they say. But don't worry. Girls and boys recover from this. Adults do. People in their forties. In their eighties. With family support, with medical attention, with psychotherapy people recover. And some of them die.<br />
<br />
There is a payphone downstairs, outside the hospital where people smoke. I see people on payphones and I wonder who they are because nobody uses payphones anymore. I'm calling my other daughter who is overseas and I'm letting her know that her sister is lighter today. I'm using a payphone now because I have left my own phone at the cemetery. I didn't just leave it. I was angry and I threw it against a headstone and it shattered all across the face. And then I left it there in the dirt because I do not want to explain to people why my phone is shattered all across the face.<br />
<br />
What can I do?<br />
<br />
There is a young doctor in the room now. Your daughter will not survive, she says.<br />
<br />
The other doctors, the nurses, they are not happy with this young doctor. But I can see it in their faces. They do not disagree.<br />
<br />
Fathers carry their daughters, I say. I will hold my breath and I will swim to the bottom of the ocean. I will retrieve each grain of her and I will build with her, a sandcastle like when she was seven. A princess out of sand. And the wind and the waves, they will not dare to knock her down.rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-21619929286519924372012-01-11T23:08:00.000+08:002012-01-11T23:09:29.166+08:00Dead Reckoning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://watchingthepaintdry.typepad.com/my-blog/2011/05/dead-reckoning.html?" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6B52mpCsZyOdEdxC4LwMgfTmCY3LFaju2_domA97r1uLQr_x-EUQ8wiSKagFhShIcL4zwFSgM8F3u-n0v3U9ShncQu9YNrNV0a_oYTyMBJDBIuWh5f8Xqpi5-ObzaihcYFwg6AA/s320/DeadReckoning_Sheila+Cameron.jpg" width="318" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
That painting of yours ... the red bench in the woods ... it's hanging on the wall above our bed except I've painted over the bench with a bear and he's dead. There's blood streaming from his head because he's been shot and he's checking Facebook on his phone. He's alone. It's dark, no stars or moonlight tonight, deep within this acrylic and oil on canvas with ink. The bear is you, I think, and I'm the bench, replaced, or the bullet, depending on who you ask.<br />
<br />
We met, back then in the diner. You knew my friend and I was drunk and you in that dress, you were so pretty, didn't you know it? You ran your hands through my hair, your nails across my scalp and I was a dog with a broken leg; you took me in.<br />
<br />
And we fucked.<br />
<br />
Your dad and I talked about football and Bukowski and he stocked his fridge with my kind of beer. Your mum said I was queer and giggled on account of I don't know why. She always hugged me tight when we said good-bye and then she died of cancer. At the funeral you read that poem I wrote and you cried in the car. We swam in the ocean.<br />
<br />
And we were happy.<br />
<br />
When you graduated I quit my job. A year in London and Paris and love and then we drank champagne and quit smoking weed because you got that job at the bank.<br />
<br />
And we bought a house.<br />
<br />
I slept at night, warm next to you and I dreamed I was the captain of a ship. You were a pelican and I asked you to guide me through the rocks. By dead reckoning how could you not say yes? We'd safely navigated channels just like this a hundred times before. Then, spying a fish you dived down deep into the sea.<br />
<br />
And somehow you drowned in the thickness of it all.<br />
<br />
Of course, now I see what you were telling me all those years ago with your brush and with your paint. A red bench in the woods, it's beautiful, how quaint. But it's not natural; it's out of place. It's me on my knee, green grass, at the beach, sunset.<br />
<br />
But I didn't drag that bench into the woods.<br />
<br />
We built it with our hands and our bodies and when people asked about it we smiled and we knew.<br />
<br />
You are not a bear.rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-85716497926011719222012-01-03T22:45:00.000+08:002012-01-03T22:45:05.241+08:00Trapped<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-COE9wOLOePA/TwMPpOT5ncI/AAAAAAAABOc/kSNLzfZmeug/s1600/Trapped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="318" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-COE9wOLOePA/TwMPpOT5ncI/AAAAAAAABOc/kSNLzfZmeug/s320/Trapped.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
My hairdresser gets frustrated easily. I know this on account of she just told me. She's shaving the back of my neck with a straight edge. "It gets kind of crazy back there," I say, because I'm bad at small talk. She laughs and agrees and I say "well not that crazy" because now I'm embarrassed about how much hair I have on the back of my neck and she says "no, this is pretty crazy."<br />
<br />
There's a boy waiting to get his hair cut and he's talking too loudly.<br />
<br />
"Inside voice," my hairdresser yells at him.<br />
<br />
"I like the tickley razor thing I want to look like a soldier I AM NOT A BELIEVER GOD IS AN ASSHOLE," the boy rants.<br />
<br />
"He must have a disability," my hairdresser says.<br />
<br />
"Where's his mum?" I ask, thinking my hairdresser probably wants to talk some more about how frustrated she is.<br />
<br />
"She's out there drinking coffee, talking on the phone," my hairdresser says. "This is not a fucking babysitter service."<br />
<br />
The boy kicks something and it makes a crashing sound.<br />
<br />
Then the hairdresser at the next chair over says "no kicking" and my hairdresser says "Jesus" and the boy screams "I AM NOT A CATHOLIC" and now his mum is back and she says "it's just something that people do, like a tradition. They get baptised. Just because you get baptised doesn't mean you are a Catholic" and I realise I need to cough but I can't cough because there is a razor sliding up and down the back of my neck and then I do cough.<br />
<br />
"Oh, I've nicked you," my hairdresser says.<br />
<br />
I can feel blood on my neck.<br />
<br />
"That's okay," I say, but it isn't. I'm in an old single file war tunnel and there are people in front of me and behind me. It's a school camp and I'm trapped. The tunnel is only as wide as my body and it's dark and I'm freaking the fuck out.<br />
<br />
I'm on the Caterpillar at the Rotary Fair. The cover is on and it's loud in my ears and we're going too fast. I'm screaming for my mother but the man is giving me the thumbs up. He thinks I'm having fun.<br />
<br />
I'm living with my girlfriend. There's a Monet print on the bedroom wall and we're watching Greys Anatomy. She's telling me about that time she turned her eyelids inside out and now she's telling me about the time she caught her teacher snorting coke at the yacht club and I say "oh yeah, you told me about that" and then I think ONE BILLION TIMES and I wonder, statistically, what are her chances of dying. Like cancer or drowning and I don't know how other people get out of these situations. My girlfriend is nice but seriously how cold can you make the air-conditioner go?<br />
<br />
I look in the mirror and this is actually the worst haircut I've ever had. Even worse than that time my friend told me about the $3 haircuts at the beauty school. My hairdresser holds the hand mirror up for approval of the back cut. There's still blood on my neck and it's on my shirt. And I see back in the wall mirror that my hair is all, it's just, it makes me look like a fucking idiot.<br />
<br />
"Looks great" I say but I'm thinking about how my socks are too tight and could I maybe undo my shoes here in the hairdresser and take off my socks and then the kid with the disability rips off his cape and runs out the door.rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-55865486277159538052011-11-30T18:45:00.001+08:002011-12-03T00:02:02.772+08:00Dying is Not Like Sleeping<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8-sAwZtLdbJczCQGFEGxkYfOrM7wbkWCsaA8XOtBl6Lp3UpUIO6iU-Zvko-TuQTuL0GqY2V2sRI7Gn-mPO2-C_UdNkGTIAKAdjsWuoXKrkrSd-4bEQJ7ky9-H3cs3qHUgU3MU0g/s1600/Dying.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8-sAwZtLdbJczCQGFEGxkYfOrM7wbkWCsaA8XOtBl6Lp3UpUIO6iU-Zvko-TuQTuL0GqY2V2sRI7Gn-mPO2-C_UdNkGTIAKAdjsWuoXKrkrSd-4bEQJ7ky9-H3cs3qHUgU3MU0g/s320/Dying.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I was in their bed watching the Greatest American Hero when I heard my mother's car pull into the garage. I turned the television off and deliberately spread my maths homework across the sheets. But she took longer than usual to come inside that night and when she did she was noticeably different. Nervous. Tired. Not crying, but sad and her voice was soft. She seemed younger somehow. "He's gone," she whispered.<br />
<br />
We slept together and in the morning we ate our breakfast on the veranda. "Dying is not like sleeping," my mother said. "Nor is living so simple as being awake."rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-5371254834351541142011-11-26T14:00:00.001+08:002011-11-29T23:10:02.255+08:00Ink<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZVdbjwPyETno34oeblOCb9zRVMO6ZuQUVezv8d1_8_ok6XKmSimL9kQUUdAJtn2sQk68uFMhHfeqPr31iloUyT19u70myeYh-8XBNn8C_597AOV6GT18lBFdVdiF1-zfN95N0Kw/s1600/bukowski-450x337.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZVdbjwPyETno34oeblOCb9zRVMO6ZuQUVezv8d1_8_ok6XKmSimL9kQUUdAJtn2sQk68uFMhHfeqPr31iloUyT19u70myeYh-8XBNn8C_597AOV6GT18lBFdVdiF1-zfN95N0Kw/s320/bukowski-450x337.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
"It's a Bukowski poem," she says, referring to the words etched across the skin of her arm. It's 1990 and I don't know about Bukowski or poetry or girls with ink yet. "Did it hurt?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"It always hurts," she answers with her now familiar deadpan drawl. Looking back I can see the truth in that. It does always fucking hurt.<br />
<br />
"I'm taking the fIREHOSE," she says. It's today now and she's leaving and she's taking the music and the books with her. Our memories. I want to beg her to stay but I can't even swallow my own spit.<br />
<br />
"Okay?"<br />
<br />
She's waiting for me to defend myself, to come up with any kind of halfway logical reason why she should stay.<br />
<br />
It's two weeks earlier now and it's morning and I'm standing naked and half wet just out of the shower. I look at myself in the mirror.<br />
<br />
"I'm disgusting," I say.<br />
<br />
"I'm a terrible person."<br />
<br />
"God."<br />
<br />
And now it's today again, but later, and she's gone. It's quiet and I'm already lonely. I want to write about it because that's what we do. What I do, I guess. I write poetry. "Love poems," I think to myself and I laugh so long and hard that it turns into a cough and now I'm trying not to vomit.<br />
<br />
"You shouldn't smoke so much," she says. This is about six months ago and I'm thinking "God damn it I won't quit smoking because what else do I have?" And then she kisses me halfway through a drag and I can't swallow so I share it with her; I let the smoke waft out of my nose and mouth as if my face was a just-fired gun and she draws it deep into her throat before passing it back to me. <br />
<br />
It's today and I'm reading her Facebook page.<br />
<br />
"He's an asshole."<br />
<br />
"You deserve better."<br />
<br />
"Good riddance."<br />
<br />
"He's a fat piece of shit asshole fuck face garbage can."<br />
<br />
I go back to 1990 and wonder what she sees in me. "I want to be a fighter pilot," I say. I'm drunk and I don't know how to talk to girls and obviously this is not how you do it because she is laughing and calling her friends over and now they're singing that song from Top Gun and I feel like shit because I'm going to be alone forever. But it's later and I'm still there with her and her friends and she says "you want to see something funny?"<br />
<br />
And of course I do and so she slips her shoe off and peels her stocking down and right there on her ankle is another tattoo.<br />
<br />
"Take me to bed or lose me forever"<br />
<br />
It's 3a.m. now and I know I'm going to have to sleep at some point. But this has got to come out of me first. Words and cigarettes. That's what this has come to. But the only words on the screen are "I AM A FUCKING ASSHOLE" and they are in all caps and they are in 62 point font and I'm starting to realize that's about the sum of it.<br />
<br />
I'm a fucking asshole.<br />
<br />
It's six months later and she's here in our coffee shop. She's happy and she's with some guy and he seems nice enough and she's read the first draft of my novel. "It's great," she says and I know she means it because she always means it.<br />
<br />
"But what does that say?" she asks, pointing to the ink scrawled across the back of my neck.<br />
<br />
"It's a poem," I say. "I wrote it the night you left."rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-9621150146498087642011-10-16T04:37:00.002+08:002011-10-16T10:21:51.746+08:00Our Eyes Will Never Change<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2T0xD2nFjXnPD79X_lt-xe_30mAaBjwNzr-yb8CCUZj1r09cEG6GhHD8ZF9xZLQqUnzBoRi4bZcbd510iHk0QtVNN-c206ctW8VktLFH695iosBO-kQL6Cu-pqviyo_YJvxMvA/s1600/600full-joan-jett.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2T0xD2nFjXnPD79X_lt-xe_30mAaBjwNzr-yb8CCUZj1r09cEG6GhHD8ZF9xZLQqUnzBoRi4bZcbd510iHk0QtVNN-c206ctW8VktLFH695iosBO-kQL6Cu-pqviyo_YJvxMvA/s320/600full-joan-jett.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Drinking Doctor Pepper<br />
in Joan Jett leather<br />
<br />
Sweaty legs<br />
ice cream line<br />
<br />
Michigan<br />
summertime<br />
God damn<br />
I want you<br />
<br />
back<br />
<br />
In 1986<br />
holding hands<br />
first kiss<br />
lips<br />
fingering your grandmother's crucifix on the wrong side of Mack<br />
take me<br />
<br />
back<br />
<br />
Come on<br />
let me touch you<br />
hug you<br />
slide my hands<br />
inbetween you<br />
like that night down Woodward in your daddy's car<br />
<br />
We haven't gone too far<br />
<br />
Sit with me<br />
and reminisce<br />
I miss days like this<br />
<div>
Belle Isle</div>
<div>
swimming</div>
<div>
reading</div>
<div>
singing </div>
<div>
playing guitar under the stars</div>
<div>
<br />
I don't care what happened in the snow<br />
the things you did<br />
I've let it go<br />
the things I said<br />
when we were cold<br />
nothing can ever be the same<br />
I know<br />
but our eyes will never change<br />
<div>
and the sun will shine again</div>
</div>rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-43278828039190494672011-08-04T21:35:00.001+08:002012-05-07T11:00:14.255+08:00Kiss/Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxJX2Sks333ZwA4jAlXi_1cfSuu2B-4AMq8s-daHCFtKmLFLFs96YroT7-M8P0sVw40YK9GV8a9tLSq5SMgJpcH68nfvs02ZgBbDyZQjEkx6vshIb46_Qnzxtn_Gc0h6BoRdpvHg/s1600/kissringwald.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxJX2Sks333ZwA4jAlXi_1cfSuu2B-4AMq8s-daHCFtKmLFLFs96YroT7-M8P0sVw40YK9GV8a9tLSq5SMgJpcH68nfvs02ZgBbDyZQjEkx6vshIb46_Qnzxtn_Gc0h6BoRdpvHg/s320/kissringwald.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="color: orange; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>This story is now featured in <a href="http://upliterature.com/three-stories-by-benjamin-king-2/" target="_blank">Up</a> ... check it out.</b></span><br />
<br />
She's biting his lip a little bit, sucking it, and now her tongue is entwined with his. Hers is long and thick and strong like a python or a cock and it is bullying his to the side and to the top and to the bottom. There are only tongues in his mouth, chunks of flesh thrusting, thrashing, lashing, licking, teasing, tasting; no room for air or words. Just when others might rest their mouths or breathe or stretch their cheeks or clutch desperately for other parts of the body, she breaks her own jaw and swallows him whole. She is an animal, a stray dog eating raw sausages and she cannot be satiated. Her love, her lust is physical and ferocious; her lips are swollen and bleeding and yet she continues to indulge in him for seconds and for hours and they are both fully clothed and drenched with sweat and happiness. When the sun is gone they are finished and they are spent and with his last breath before sleep he will ask if they may kiss again tomorrow.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/9rp8OCRn1QM?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-53197395736055811382011-08-03T22:35:00.001+08:002011-08-03T22:38:55.914+08:00Byberry<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBfOaw3Yqeu5aSNKuVQQ1tlRVBEXiEbwiYUvCtG2VOmQgwQj_fbjfsCZdYsgbbnlmkAmPdNxeqYbvjlnByOumUwTz1hl3cWCZfqpRvYU0H-CPQ7qqhW5jderdfQ5-2lQlggl1CJw/s1600/spy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBfOaw3Yqeu5aSNKuVQQ1tlRVBEXiEbwiYUvCtG2VOmQgwQj_fbjfsCZdYsgbbnlmkAmPdNxeqYbvjlnByOumUwTz1hl3cWCZfqpRvYU0H-CPQ7qqhW5jderdfQ5-2lQlggl1CJw/s320/spy.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>
<br />
Charles is awake now, though it is dark in the room and in his mind. He is under the blanket and under his pillow and under the influence of the pills his mother powders with her fingers three times every day. The voices are back and he listens to them until the sun creeps through the slats of his blinds. He wants to sleep and to die and to be normal but the voices are chanting in unison and the only time they do that is when there is a warning.<br />
<br />
Scramble<br />
<br />
The<br />
Spies<br />
Are<br />
Watching<br />
<br />
Your Mind<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Scramble</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Spies</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Are </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Watching</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Your Mind</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Charles does not want to think about the spies but the daylight has revealed a familiar message on the walls. He is naked and soaked in urine and he knows what must be done.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
It's twelve years ago now and Charles is staring blankly at Bärbel. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"You're fucking crazy in your fucking fucked up fucking head," she says.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
There are words and pictures scrawled in feces on the bedroom walls. Charles moves to the window and carefully peels the curtains open just enough to look out without being seen. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"The walls are covered in shit," says Bärbel.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"It is a warning," he says.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"It's a psychotic episode," yells Bärbel. "You've lost your fucking mind."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"There it goes again," he says. "That Oldsmobile has been circling all morning."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"What are you talking about?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"I don't know how you're doing it," says Charles.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"Doing what?" asks Bärbel.<br />
<br />
"Signalling. Communicating," says Charles. "You've told them where I am."<br />
<br />
It is five hours later and Charles has bashed Bärbel's head in with a baseball bat. He is dumping her body in the Delaware river and he is cold.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br />
Charles now hears his mother's knock on the door. Tappa tappa tap. Tappa tappa tap. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He peeks through the blinds. An Oldsmobile.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i>Tappa tappa tap</i>, he thinks. <i>Tappa tappa tap</i>.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"How would you like your eggs?" his mother asks.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"Scrambled," says Charles.</div>
<br />
<br />rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-35685088555345542282011-07-24T00:23:00.001+08:002011-07-24T00:23:15.050+08:00Guillaume Colletet Versus The Karate Sluts on the Moon (Space Future 1646)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.foreveryyear.eu/2011/07/1646-co-benjamin-king.html"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAY8mhUbPthjtGoG_7BsWAGSn7AdgU-zLiMgqGwjljo6Xjc04rPyW4ReAYtqpytLX3Ks2JtET6-7rRlVjG8DM44mPpieVoYkUNhj1E-wiLh_lGlgx3q5CD95Jum03uyY5N7kal1w/s320/Karate63.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Hey, yo, my magnum opus multimedia extravaganza, <a href="http://www.foreveryyear.eu/2011/07/1646-co-benjamin-king.html">Guillaume Colletet Versus The KarateSluts on the Moon (Space Future 1646)</a>, is up at Crispin Best's <a href="http://www.foreveryyear.eu/">For Every Year</a> project.rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-57796828712628869052011-06-30T22:40:00.003+08:002011-06-30T22:55:42.528+08:00One Hour Before You Die<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_-8duOOm0jUU-uclU6kCjD26M9LVSa9s0BSkGVT_H0d5dNzG3ZIgguknDsOt5NIOZ76-72fa_YkfgvRQWLrxrr8Jz8piTneUcK4tKHx92gcUT9uGu2MkbidQiQpFVLQENHKFrAg/s1600/Nono.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_-8duOOm0jUU-uclU6kCjD26M9LVSa9s0BSkGVT_H0d5dNzG3ZIgguknDsOt5NIOZ76-72fa_YkfgvRQWLrxrr8Jz8piTneUcK4tKHx92gcUT9uGu2MkbidQiQpFVLQENHKFrAg/s320/Nono.jpg" width="267" /></a></div><br />
Nono is a model of sorts. A model of socks. Her ankles are slender, not bony; athletic. Her feet wear the socks well: high arches, long toes, slightly narrow body. Nono is charismatic. She is busy and she is popular.<br />
<br />
You is a photographer of sorts. A photographer of hands, of feet. He brings a unique aesthetic to his art; the angles, the juxtapositions, the light. He is not happy in his work or in his life, although it does not show in his body or in his manner. In fact, You is known by his friends and colleagues as Mr. Sunshine. You is a professional. He is busy and he is in love with Nono.<br />
<br />
"I will take a photo of you," he says to Nono. "One hour before you die."<br />
<br />
"I may well die today," says Nono. "Have you a decent camera in your trunk?"<br />
<br />
"A new one," says You. "It is a half frame with automatic film advance. And it is very small. It hasn't left my person since it arrived."<br />
<br />
You pulls the camera from the inside pocket of his coat. Nono thinks maybe it is a handheld movie camera. It appears to have a telephone dial attached to the front. <br />
<br />
"It looks like a miniature time machine," she says.<br />
<br />
"It's a Canon Dial 35," says You. My other cameras cannot keep up. <br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Nono kneels up<span class="Apple-style-span">on a zabuton. She snorts a line of cocaine from a hand mirror that rests on a table in front of her.</span></div><div><br />
</div><div>"This is Japan," she says. "This is 1964."</div><div><br />
</div><div>"This is Manhattan," You replies as he snaps pictures of Nono. "And these years of yours, they are days for me."</div><div><br />
</div><div>"I cannot sleep," says Nono, unaware that there is now blood smeared across the back of her hand and underneath her nose. "What time is it?"</div><div><br />
</div><div>"You are outside of time," says You.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"I am struggling to understand you," says Nono. "I am very high right now. I have a shoot. My car will be here at 4pm. It is written on my palm."</div><div><br />
</div><div>"You still have 59 minutes left," says You, as he lays his Canon Dial 35 down beside an empty bottle of whiskey. "We should make love." </div>rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-49390844952220183062011-06-23T17:23:00.001+08:002011-06-23T20:38:09.023+08:00Tomorrow is a Love Song<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoChvCGdiCfhdDLwEH0lzCxySNqmwChaZtQPQ_lL_d5ujEvP0sbYcAr01c9OSm00p-rGko4TS5_9EqGWxIjdhjvgIN-EF8rjWb105IbUMl8EQ-0FPfLaPiOfXwGR1gD6ZVmufElA/s1600/joey_lawrence_1231509937.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoChvCGdiCfhdDLwEH0lzCxySNqmwChaZtQPQ_lL_d5ujEvP0sbYcAr01c9OSm00p-rGko4TS5_9EqGWxIjdhjvgIN-EF8rjWb105IbUMl8EQ-0FPfLaPiOfXwGR1gD6ZVmufElA/s320/joey_lawrence_1231509937.jpg" width="230" /></a></div><br />
"I'm right now," Mason says to his girlfriend Joey (although he calls her Lawrence on account of she says "Whoa!" a lot).<br />
<br />
"Right now you're being a dick," Joey says. "A limp dick with scabs on it. And gross balls."<br />
<br />
"Hey, this is me, you know, this is Mason. This is who Mason is. Mr. Right Fucking Now!"<br />
<br />
"You're not listening to me," says Joey, looking down at a recently uncrumpled piece of paper.<br />
<br />
"Come on, not the list again," says Mason. "If you want to cram bullet points down my earholes why don't you just load up your daddy's gun and blast me dead right here in the Pizza Hut."<br />
<br />
"If I thought it would get you to listen I would, trust me. Look, I know you've heard all of these points a hundred and one million times but I'm going to keep reading them to you until they sink in. This is important stuff Mason, excuse me, Mr. Right Fucking Now. This isn't just about you, this is about us."<br />
<br />
"Here, let me save you some time," says Mason. "I can summarize that whole sheet of paper into five key action points:<br />
<br />
<ol><li>Mason needs to stop getting drunk all of the god damned time and vomiting on carpeted areas of the apartment and people</li>
<li>Mason needs to clean up his vomit within a reasonable time frame of vomiting because by morning the stench is unbearable and the carpet has been ruined</li>
<li>Mason needs to buy Lawrence some flowers once in a while and take her out to a nice restaurant and wear cologne but not Old Spice and seduce her instead of just mashing her tits around whenever he's horny</li>
<li>Mason needs to stop calling Lawrence's friends cunts because if he actually had a conversation with them he would realize they are really smart and funny and cool</li>
<li>Mason needs to completely change his personality to suit the whims of his dumb girlfriend who doesn't understand that he is always, and has always been, right now"</li>
</ol><br />
"Whoah!" says Joey.<br />
<br />
"You know what Lawrence?" says Mason. "Tomorrow is a love song. And you're buying into that B.S. We, us, you and me, we are right here, inside of today. There is no tomorrow and I will never change for you."<br />
<br />
"Whoah!" says Joey again.<br />
<br />
"Right now," says Mason.<br />
<br />
"That's bullshit," says Joey. "No tomorrow just means no consequences."<br />
<br />
"No. No tomorrow means accepting and living what is now."<br />
<br />
"Well accept and live this buddy," says Joey as she shoves a slice of pizza down Mason's pants.<br />
<br />
"You know, you're not perfect either," says Mason as he fishes the pizza out and eats it.<br />
<br />
Joey balls up her piece of paper and shoves it down Mason's throat.<br />
<br />
"Eat shit," she says. "I'm going to stay at my folks' place tonight. And when I come back to the apartment tomorrow I want you to be gone."rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-35189141546794452652011-06-22T21:38:00.000+08:002011-06-22T21:38:37.051+08:00Grown Man Holding a Teddy Bear<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPj_PapjccDKV40Xnw1yuGVyPcP-szWlvNXT8CzHkiCCNyDlWPveq1_bRMu9WG9aUa51u1e7AOqm6gRXW0KgbulvrTEXneUc1wJtM6ZUlIM9QyQrX8XHZSZNWxLJPP-a7DRJv5Ww/s1600/Teddy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPj_PapjccDKV40Xnw1yuGVyPcP-szWlvNXT8CzHkiCCNyDlWPveq1_bRMu9WG9aUa51u1e7AOqm6gRXW0KgbulvrTEXneUc1wJtM6ZUlIM9QyQrX8XHZSZNWxLJPP-a7DRJv5Ww/s1600/Teddy.jpg" /></a></div><br />
There's a painting of a grown man holding a teddy bear. It's hanging in Trevor's local gallery.<br />
<br />
"How is this art?" he asks his wife Sophie. "Some dumb asshole has just painted a picture of a grown man holding a teddy bear and some other dumb asshole has declared that it's art. It's bullshit. Oh, nine hundred dollar bullshit by the way."<br />
<br />
"Look at his eyes," Sophie says. "Something has happened. In his life I mean. He's sad. And lonely. And angry. God, look at his face. He's angry."<br />
<br />
"I'm fucking angry," says Trevor. "Some dick faced dickhead is going to make nine hundred dollars from that. Do you know how many hours I have to work to make nine hundred dollars?"<br />
<br />
"About fifteen I guess."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, well. It probably took him about five minutes to paint that shit," says Trevor.<br />
<br />
"It's haunting. I think his wife has left him and she's taken the kids. Or they're dead. Look at his fists. His hair. Jesus, this is really affecting me."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, it's affecting me too," says Trevor. "Makes me want to stab some bullshit artist in the face with a hammer."<br />
<br />
Sophie is silent for a few moments. Her eyes are fixed on the painting. She's crying now.<br />
<br />
"Here we go," says Trevor.<br />
<br />
Sophie turns to her husband. Her hands are shaking.<br />
<br />
"I know about her," she says. Her voice is not strong.<br />
<br />
"Nothing's going on," says Trevor. "I swear to god."<br />
<br />
"I'm not talking about that skank slut Julie, Trevor. I'm talking about the woman in that painting."<br />
<br />
"All I see up there is a grown assed man and a teddy bear. Not a woman in sight."<br />
<br />
"That's our daughter's teddy bear," Sophie says. <br />
<br />
"Our daughter's what?"<br />
<br />
"I'm leaving," Sophie says.<br />
<br />
"Hold up," says Trevor. "Let me grab my coat."rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24742453.post-66435562802421789232011-06-21T14:43:00.003+08:002011-06-21T16:33:23.215+08:00"We Didn't Start the Fire" by Billy Joel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWClN3dMn_5ycxB_qNeQ5K45m-uX4os_Rqdu3vLHPhi5ZuryOZV3n4fSkghniyT4v5J2_vyqUCu3VQwSi1R6iTbEYGzXG1fKqCvoTi2gH2eIpW0kbtjPrz-7gTWQPe73mcFmam_Q/s1600/Quilton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWClN3dMn_5ycxB_qNeQ5K45m-uX4os_Rqdu3vLHPhi5ZuryOZV3n4fSkghniyT4v5J2_vyqUCu3VQwSi1R6iTbEYGzXG1fKqCvoTi2gH2eIpW0kbtjPrz-7gTWQPe73mcFmam_Q/s320/Quilton.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #073763;">Billy has called the Quilton customer support hotline. He has called this number before and he knows that you can circumnavigate the interactive voice response system by pressing "0".</span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: </b>Good morning, may I have your first name please?</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy: </b>Billy Joel <br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist:</b> Thank you Mr. Joel, My name is Veronica. I notice that you gave me your last name in addition to your first name. Would you prefer that I call you Mr. Joel.</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> I'm not sure, Billy is kind of childish I suppose, but it may feel more like I am talking to a friend if you call me Billy. But Mr. Joel probably commands more respect. Can you please hold on a moment.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #073763;">A moment passes.</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> I'm back. You can call me Billy.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: </b>Thank you Billy. Can I have a contact number just in case we are disconnected during our call?</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy: </b>Yes. 0488-029-967<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist:</b> Thank you Billy. May I ask why you are calling today?</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> It's regarding your Quilton Gold brand toilet paper.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist:</b> So just to confirm, you have a concern relating to the Gold line of toilet tissue.</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy: </b>Toilet paper.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: </b>Yes, here at Quilton we refer to our products as toilet tissue. Our research shows that people, especially those within our key demographic, have a negative association with toilet paper. They tend to find it boorish or uncouth. Vulgar even.</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> It is what it is. Can I ask what your key demographic is?<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: </b>I am not permitted to be too specific but I will say that our products tend to appeal to the highly successful career woman.</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> I don't know how I feel about that. Is there some kind of user group? I feel like I would like to associate with some highly successful career women.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist:</b> There is a guest book on our web site at <a href="http://www.quilton.com.au/">www.quilton.com.au</a>. You can read other people's comments and add some of your own. It is moderated.</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> I'm not sure if that is really what I had in mind. I'll check it out though.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: </b>So Billy, what can I do for you today?</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> Prior to purchasing the Quilton Gold toilet paper...<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist:</b> Tissue</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> ... yes. I did a lot of research. I like to make informed decisions when making large purchases.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist:</b> Do you consider toilet tissue to be a major purchase?</span></span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> Yes. I buy a lot of toilet paper at one time.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: </b>Well, I like a man who knows his toilet tissue Billy.</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> Yes, well I read up on it on the Internet, chat rooms, message boards, etc and in Choice magazine and I looked at the information on the packaging and on each company's web site and I did a touch and smell test at the Supermarket and it was quite clear that Quilton Gold was the one for me.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: </b>What did you like most about the Gold line?</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> It is everything a toilet paper should be really. Soft, smooth, durable. And the fragrance is appealing but not overpowering in any way.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: </b>So it sounds like you have found the right toilet tissue for you Billy. What's worrying you about this purchase?</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy: </b>As soon as I started using the Quilton Gold I experienced a small amount of chafing. I applied various creams and balms and salves but over the weeks it has deteriorated to the point where it is very uncomfortable. I can't wear pants. I can't not wear pants. I can't walk or sit or sleep. It is really ruining my life.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: </b>That sounds like a real problem Billy and I will do everything I can to resolve this for you today. Just to make sure I am hearing you correctly, are you saying that you believe the Gold line is causing your bottom to chafe?</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> Yes. There is chafing right around my anus and it spreads about a quarter of the way up each cheek. The skin is very irritated.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: </b>Are you rough with the tissue Billy?</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy: </b>Excuse me?<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist:</b> When you wipe, do you really dig in and scrub around? Do you apply a lot of pressure to the tissue and grind it all the way into your anus? </span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy: </b>No, not really. I try to be quite gentle but I do keep going until I get all of the gunk out.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist:</b> Good, that sounds like you are an average wiper and I think we can rule out abrasive wiping technique as a cause of your problem.</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy: </b>It's quite red, too. And extremely itchy.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: </b>I'm sure it is. You should try not to scratch, though. It will just make things worse. Have you introduced any other products to your buttock or anal areas in recent weeks? New brand of underpants, lubricating jelly, lotions, or anything similar?</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> No, not that I can think of. Oh, I did buy a new leather office chair for my computer.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist:</b> Do you generally wear pants at your computer? Stop me if I am being too personal Billy.</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy: </b>Yes, I usually wear pants. Sometimes I, well I feel like my bum is always covered while I am sitting in the chair.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: </b>Are you allergic to anything Billy?</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> I am allergic to bee stings. My arms and legs swell up and I get itchy all over.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: </b>Can you hold for a moment Billy? I'm just going to check our allergen database.</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy: </b>Okay<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: </b>Okay, thanks for holding Billy. We might be onto something here. There is nothing officially documented by our product design or science divisions but it looks like there have been three or four isolated incidences that sound a lot like your chafed bottom. And it says here that all of them have reported bee allergies. It could be a reaction to the fragrance.</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> I'm not sure how to feel about that. I did a lot of research. My garage is full of Quilton Gold. I can't even park my car in there.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: </b>What kind of car is it Billy? </span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> It's a Honda Odyssey. Minivan.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: </b>That's a big car Billy. Do you have kids?</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> Oh, no. I just, you know. You can take the seats out and I buy in bulk a lot, so.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist:</b> Oh yes, of course.Well Billy, you have been very patient on the phone with me today. I'm going to consult with my manager about our little situation here and we'll find you a Quilton line that does not cause your bottom to chafe.</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> I look like a monkey.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist:</b> I'm sure that's not true Billy. We'll find the right tissue for you and I'll make sure you get every single roll replaced. We won't be satisfied until your bottom has been returned to its former glory.</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy: </b>That's very sweet of you Veronica. You are the nicest customer service person I have ever spoken to. Are you married?<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist:</b> I'm not married Billy. </span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> Do you think maybe you'd like to grab a coffee sometime?<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: </b>Billy I might just remind you that this call may be recorded for training purposes. On a side note, as soon as your new shipment of toilet paper is authorised I will call you personally to arrange a delivery time. </span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy: </b>Yes, thank you Veronica.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: </b>Okay Billy, it has been a pleasure talking with you today. Have I resolved the issue to your complete satisfaction?</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> Yes, thank you.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b>Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: </b>That's good to hear. Have a great morning Billy. I'll be speaking to you soon.</span><br />
<br />
<b>Billy:</b> Good bye.rollerfinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04995299704824179402noreply@blogger.com5