bloody

A four clove evening, one right after another while I sit at my desk, window open to the rain, and write.

There’s a problem with inspiration; it always comes at a cost, an attachment.

Funny how I see those things as one and the same.

But I want it. I want to peel back the skin and find something bloody and tender. Something to remind me why I still seek to possess something that by its nature is painful to share, and even more painful to lose.

have knives, will travel

This autumn, I am going to Europe.

Over ten years ago, I visited Ireland. I wasn’t long out of college, had few attachments other then the friends I went with, and the week we spent roaming the Irish countryside with a map and a rough plan was an important one.

The week was filled with interesting memories: The first ‘castle’ we found was smaller then the place I live in now; on a road along the Dingle peninsula, we defied the laws of physics by passing between sleeping sheep on one side and a large tour bus on the other – on a road I swear wasn’t more than a few feet larger then the car we were driving in; the last night we were there, we feasted in Bunratty castle, drinking mead served by wenches and accompanied by good music.

It was a hell of a great trip.

This fall I’m heading back overseas; not to Ireland this time – but London, Paris, Rome, Venice, Interlaken, and Amsterdam. It’ll only be for a couple of weeks, but I plan to make the most of it.

i am D’jaevle’s over-inflated sense of importance

I was reading David Foster Wallace’s Kenyon commencement speech (found here) and got to the part where he speaks about avoiding the dangers of close-minded thinking.

‘Not a problem for me,’ I told myself, ‘I’m one of the most open-minded people I know.’

Which is well and good, except…except I realize the danger of believing in one’s own rhetoric. Even if I am as open minded as I believe I am, that doesn’t mean I don’t participate in my share of wrong-thinking. There is a difference between liberal sensibilities and having a progressive and expansive view of the world.

And because I refuse to let such ideas go, I began looking for the flaws in my own thinking.

For most of my life, I’ve worn my selfishness as a badge of honor. ‘I’m selfish,’ I would tell people, ‘But I’m upfront about it.”

Admitting it, you see, makes it okay.

My selfishness is a personal bit of self-irony and an exercise in comedic masturbation (how else do you describe sharing an inside joke only with yourself?).

I tell myself it’s alright. Because while I am very selfish in some areas of my life, in most areas I am incredibly selfless; on the whole I’m a really nice guy.

…but that’s entirely irrelevant. Because it’s not really about being selfish.

It’s about being self-centered. It’s about viewing the world only in terms of the role I have in it. Not that there’s anything innately wrong with this – I Ihink it’s the default view for the majority of people, if only for self-preservation reasons.

But if it’s not innately wrong, it’s not innately right either. And a change in perspective has never done a person harm.

I’m quite content with my predatory nature; this isn’t going to change.

But there’s nothing wrong with being a better wolf.

desk

Fingers hooked on the front of your jeans and I dragged you close.

I read the uncertainty in your eyes, but there was no hesitation in my own. It didn’t take much to loosen your jeans, just a quick unsnapping of buttons and my hand was drawing them over your hips. I could feel your indecision like a low current along your skin, but while I was moving slowly, letting the jeans settle around your feet, I gave you no chance to escape. My hands moved to your wrists, drawing them over your head, and your shirt joined your jeans on the floor.

You were bared to me, clothed now only in the sheer fabric of your panties. I leaned forward, forcing you back a step, until you were trapped between me and the desk. My hands encircled your waist and I lifted you, settling your ass near the edge.

Knee nudging your thighs apart, I stepped between your legs and buried my right hand in the back of your hair. Drawing your head back to expose your throat, my words were spoken against the long curve of your neck.

“Mine.”

And you were, for you had no where to go.

With my other hand, I unsnapped my own jeans, but left them on, just freeing myself ,a length of heat against your naked thigh; I was content for the moment to let it rest against your skin, a solid reminder of my intent. In contrast, the light touch of my lips along your neck was almost gentle, slow, and lingering.

Nuzzling your vulnerable throat, my lips parted to taste your skin.

But where lips moved, teeth soon followed, first grazing the pulse alongside your neck and then sinking into your shoulder.

I drew aside your panties and buried myself inside of you. Almost as a reflex, your legs twined behind my waist, pulling me in until you were filled completely.

I used my grip in your hair to draw you close enough to kiss – hard – biting your lower lip as I drove inside again, and again, and again, relentlessly, bodies pressed tight; I could feel your breasts pressed into my skin, your thighs around my own, and there was no pause, no moment of peace, just savage fucking until I felt you tense, your gasp of release caught against the top of my chest.

departure

The taste of the ocean after swimming. Speaking to an old friend for the first time in years.

My memories are like that, indelicate yet graceful and forever untrustworthy. In them, I am a better man then the one I am now. The person I was yesterday is cleverer and more amusing. His words were crafted with great care and singular purpose. In comparison, the words I use today are accidental, clumsy and benign.

This particular memory is only half realized; I can remember the words as they left me, remember the way they tasted as they passed through my lips while I drifted near the edge of sleep. But they were silhouetted words, sheer and razor-thin, fragile in their cruelty, and I cannot remember how well they survived the rite of speech.

I was telling her what I planned to do once I had her under me: kneeling over her bare back, a sharp curved knife in one hand, my other on the back of her neck to hold her perfectly still. I told her I would carve her the wings she craved. I would trace their shape along the smooth skin of her back in precision and eloquence. Her wings would be bold, bloody, and beautiful.

I wanted her to fly.

Or, at least, I wanted the memory of it.

but the fucking isn’t sweet

My hunger, today, is filled with sharp edges. It tastes of iron and old blood. Like the cracks in a shattered windshield, its fingers spider across the surface of my thoughts, coloring my perceptions and forcing my attention to a place I have long ignored in favor of more immediate, less challenging, options.

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D’jaevle, Bad, Bad, Thing