Circa 86 there was a small birth in the belly of the city of angels. At the middlemost stroke of midnight when people were least likely take notice. Five by nine glossies were shot to save the memory, albeit it out of focus. The theme. Dad was transfixed on stringing success from the ground floor, to the mezzanine. While mom was busy directing the rush of technical traffic, which trust me, isn't nearly as organized as it seems. In the end they both made prolonged plans to keep in touch - minus the wedding bands - though the kid would ultimately consider that a favor. The prologue.
And as to the particulars behind the narrator? He'd come to slip neck deep in defining the reasons behind breathing, a shade this side of shy, and teetering to introvert for not being easy on the eyes, but all the same I'd hoist my hand to give you the warmest of greetings. Early as any head could conceive, I've held something of a curious fancy for ink, and the to and fro type turning of pages. The infatuation only budded from a cursory glance to bloom into a bold gesture of courtship the longer folks gave me space think. A seedling taken for sap when it came to capturing moments of then and back. And I dove head first into any and every semblance of letter whose curve and shape struck a sultry chord and held promise of a silver tongue. Word whore, but wait there's quite a few inches more. The praxis. Long and hard I'd scrawl my insides on paper and wore wrists to the point of ache from the will of the spill. The work itself becoming the purpose behind why I still steal air and barter with father time for yet another extension as an attendee of the arms bazaar.
And as to the prophets? They came in unorthodox numbers well worth the toll that any full center could back pocket. Like that bearded bloke from Maine who once told me he'd killed a million pens and constantly consulted his watch to see if his five minutes had expired. All caught up with washing himself in the brilliant stream of consciousness and immaculate eccentricities. Or that one Long Island poet in that one post hardcore band with a penchant for shivering and letting used ends expire. He taught me everything I know about silence and the proper form for dealing with women when they turn one conjoined eight into two opposing zeroes.
And we go to eleven, turn to the antagonists. Bear in mind like any worth telling, this tale wasn't left untouched by Lady Lament's looming fingertips, and I got played like the ebony piano keys. She touched me often enough with the effeminate business end that I learned yellow brick roads often run fairly frequent with the sheen that shades roses red. As to the "fairer sex", it was a slew of misspent endeavors, a score or more of discarded letters, and an abandoned tenement that once housed noble intentions, until I finally got smart and marked you all. And the lesson? Growing accustomed to keeping an arm's length and teeth hidden in the face of women is the most efficient means to make a safe first and final impression. Dubbing slattern to the lot has never made me feel safer, since seriously, you're a dime a dozen, and add up to the same in person as letters used to form your names on paper.
And as if learning that ingénues were merely a figment of fiction's vapid imagination didn't season me sage enough, a rabid enthusiasm for language in lieu of chains, smoke, and improper speech, marked me one fish left of the school to those sharing the same shade who'd I'd pass in the street.
Marked me a wounded faun fit to attend the feast, a course (of course) of more discourse rather than one allowed to eat. A walking fun house mirror to be marred by the many as a sort of social coma leper. And prolonged exposure of playing the square trying to fit circumference of the circle resulted in me making a habit of holding unfavorable feelings taciturn. For all too often they were recouping from critical condition after a myriad of mal-formed distaffs and derelicts, who at a dropped hat wouldn't hesitate to dig mandibles in.
All this skin, and the twist is it tempered to iron from the fray. At 15 I found a common passion in the palm of a perfect mirror image I'd come to call my blood brother. At 17 I'd set fire amongst the ostracizing aphids, deciding it would be the written pages coining my worth and not the two cent portion of the peanut gallery rabble speech. I'd shift from square to hexagon, so that it was the circle that became unworthy of my space, friend request denied, friend request delete. At 18 I fell into what was and what I'd be, and post a slight crack, dissect my outer shell. And in deciphering the niche would sew a center some would consider too golden to sell.
And eventually I'd get to 20, when I finally drop shield and let the dubious [she] pop the proverbial cherry. Not nearly monumental as the legends said, but there was a moment or two when the bed rocking beguiled my head. And thus it fell back to the enamel of clicking teeth with thinking of words to best describe the sheets. If justice is the whim of the judge, then I object to the notion that lives are made up one dredge and wholesale doldrums at a time. I'm only 24, and still have shades to go before I can say everything is in immaculately in line, but until then its all wrist ache and clutching hours in a weary a fist. It's a lighter tome, but it's all mine, since circa 86
but all that said to say, i'm a writer, not an artist. i've much love and respect for those who can draw however. hence why i'm here.