Photons taking shortcuts in vertical temperature gradients

If you have been to visit you know that I have lots of windows. Fifty six on the first floor alone. Big healthy windows. Some smaller but still sufficient to offer a good look at the city. West, southwest, and southern views can be had without effort. Just look. A southeast or east look requires a stretch of the head, maybe even an open window. So how is it I have come to only look out of a one of the fifty six? A fixation now on a one that provides a directly southern view. A low southern view to be more precise. I have heard it said that if you look too far south you will surely find Hell.

There is little to see. A cleared lot the size of two city blocks recently appeared, almost front and center. Like a taunt. What existed before now removed. Cleared. And there is no new construction. No one treads, nothing moves. On the periphery streams of automobiles move in diametric directions. Barely audible. A few veins of trees separate and surround the asphalt and the occasional pedestrian. Presumably for affect. Like a frame, a border. A suggestion of normalcy. It feels as cruel ruse. Insult.

One morning finds the cars move faster than is typical. As if the great Player of games has adjusted the settings. Now they move as if they are on a highway and not a city street. Constant acceleration. Blurrrr. Or perhaps I lack the discipline necessary to properly integrate the imagery. Their sudden insistence defeated by my indifference. Or vice versa and I will not argue. I don't particularly care. I did not ask for the settings to be adjusted. Just so you know I would have the street be emptied, entirely deserted, rather than populated by lifeless things that move faster than I care to watch. I can no longer scrutinize. Blurrrr. They all are as good as dead. I struggle to imagine. This inanimate world outside my window gives me nothing.

A stick figure of a man crosses closely in front of the traffic. Too closely, I think. A bit cavalier. A bit aggressive, almost assertive. He makes it halfway across before the light changes and so he stops in the center island - a thin strip of pavement in the middle of four divergent streams. He looks drab from this distance. He is drab. Too drab a fellow to scrutinize. But he wavers, almost staggers about, in the center island for a long moment, his unsteadiness jarring amongst such certain scenery, such predictable movements, and I wonder if he feels tempted by the thought of extermination by automobile. It is thrilling to consider and then I realize I must quickly consider my response - will I avert my eyes if he chooses to step in front of the onrush? No, of course not. I will watch. I do watch, intently. Stick man's gallery of one. And I urge him to DO IT. I'll hear nothing. His finish will be a silent one for this audience. I need not worry about the unpleasant squish of busted flesh, the crackle of shattered bone. It will be entirely visual and visceral.

I have been silent ten days now. And counting. The last person I spoke to looked out my southern window and smiled deeply. We all hate adverbs but I choose deeply because it seems the smile originated in a place out of reach to most, certainly I could not reach it, and her smile also contained a loveliness quotient that I do not adequately know how to describe or quantify. If I possessed more courage I might label it as blessed. The night was warm, almost hot, and as we had just returned from a long walk, so were we. This was a moonless night and so of course somewhat dark. But lots of city lights interrupted, a few headlights, the deep breathing of a double decker tour bus. She stood and looked and she liked what she saw. Deeply, as I said earlier. For an uncomfortable while I watched her watch. Eventually I touched her shoulder, turned her head away, towards mine. What, I asked. Tell me. What, I repeated. Tell me what you see.

moody limerick

Ever stoop with a fellow named Cracon?
We'd drink whisky then fry eggs and bacon
We'd argue this and that
He'd insist thin be fat
Now he all ganja like a Jamaican

again

I did not work today. And after yesterday making words to The Man. Magical words. Describing a restoration or a re-imagining. Visions painted. Only noise. Blah Blah Blah.

I sit at a coffee place in a suit and tie and type. Earlier I read. I am neither contented nor ashamed. I saw glimpses of John earlier and now I feel neglectful. A gray man sitting across from me smells of decay. He frightens me and I hate him but I'm also grateful for him sitting there.

This morning I was doing my breathing stretching exercises and there was a short moment when my mind was not wandering and I was not chasing after it. I felt a lost stillness returned. I will not call this revelatory or grand or lasting. But there was a moment, a slice, that I feel correct in labeling peace.

They were supposed to send people to wash and polish my floors today. I think I can go home now.

silent L, dreaming M

Outside of James's southern window is snow: scattered, piled, drifts. It is imaginary snow, of course, but it's what he sees when he feels desperate or nervous. Sometimes the hot summer sky turns blizzard and he can't even make out the street below. He pulls imagery from memory, taste of a different coast, taste of cold and snow, and he blends this memory into present. Imposes it over present. But he does not think about this operation any longer: now when he feels a certain way, a certain range of ways, he looks out the window and it is snow. And sometimes he feels chilled enough to put on a sweater, or on exceptional occasions, a coat.

And so James did not stir from his sleep last night while he watched himself throw snowballs with M in the street below. She was bundled, as a novice to cold would be bundled, the scarf so tight around the throat that if she was not dream imagery she might struggle for air. But she is dream imagery and so not only did she not gasp to inhale air, her exhaled hot breath shot an exaggerated three feet or so in front of her body. And not in puffs. More continuous, as if breathing has become entirely exhale to her. Like the stream above a sewer grate. An impolite analogy, but apt.

James and M stood a half block or so apart, facing each other. Muffled words were also thrown that they both had no trouble deciphering. The occasional nod or hand wave. And then a continuous barrage of snow in both directions. James always tossing short of target, as if a force field drops his bombs at her feet. M always tossing long. Some majestic launching strikes - five stories high? Ten? And her so small from the aerial view, but a tiny little launcher from James's window, where, of course, he watches himself and M snow fight. Snow play? He thinks they look happy, that he and she look happy. But she is so tightly bundled and his snow keeps falling short and so he beats on the window, first slowly, then rapidly, first with fingers, then with fists. He can't be sure of what he witnesses and he can't make them look up. They are oblivious. Again, James is but a spectator of his own events.

What James notices last is L taking notes on the sofa, in that furiously rapid manner of hers - the little fingers blurring across the page or keypad, this time page, her lips moving at similar speed to her fingers, words come, crisp words that James so wants to hear, but he can not. Her words sail all around him like M's snowballs sail over his head below, and James knows that if he could just hear what L is saying then everything will be Okay, everything in his life will fall into order. Everything. He also knows that if he would just stop pounding on the window he could hear L, clearly. But he can not corral himself. Can not harness this overwhelming need to pound on the window, to make those below him in the snow see him, listen to what he must tell them so their snow would reach each other, so they can play this game correctly. L becomes but a distraction, an annoyance,  and then a greater urgency arrives like the flush of a nice belt of bourbon and so he pounds faster and harder, of course it seems he should have shattered the window by this point, but it is a dream and sometimes dream windows are not made of glass. Eventually L was no more upon the couch. It was if she was never there, as if she never said a word. But L was there. James woke knowing L was there. More importantly, M knows it. And that is when M unraveled her scarf and tossed it like a lasso in James's direction.

M, M, the second M, and more M

Another time we can hear about the woman whose hands open energy channels in the body. The woman who spent two hours on James and moved him from a mental state of depression and anguish to tentatively optimistic. That was on Friday. Yesterday he exercised in the gym for an hour, the first time since the latest surgery almost six months ago. It did not hurt as he had feared. He then jumped in the pool and splashed about for half an hour. He didn't drown.

Before the gym James got two solid hours of quiet. Writing time and he felt emptied afterwards. The one workout went as well as the other. Body and mind and spirit functioning as James has come to expect. Though not recently. James afraid those days of ableness lost. James embarrassed by the gusting of change, the unanticipated speed, his own bystander at his own crash. The sudden wreckage, the turned heads, the splatter and the screams. James the only observer of his sudden gradual demise. The weight of it.

So on this day James can leave those thoughts elsewhere. From coffee to computer to gym to pool and now watch him dance (a very loose interpretation of his awkward movements - what other word to use?) to loud pirated music on his computer, or, maybe it is loud pirate music on his computer - either way, he clearly doesn't give a damn.

Then a shave and an elongated shower, no concern with how much of the expensive as hell shampoo to use, several white shirts auditioned and rejected, the unexpected wrinkle, the too tight fit, eventually the winner, and then the auditioning of ties, the jacket and slacks choice obvious, and finally enter the celebratory shoes, the ones worn only when the mood is appropriately high. James will pay The Man today, but he will arrive looking as he feels.

Work work work. Calls, a visitor, emails, decisions, coffee pot banter, a lesson for a newb, an exchange of texts, a story for Nina, a flirtation, an appointment, paperwork. Four fifteen comes and James has had enough. He has grown unaccustomed to work and the fullness of his day now has him tired. Grocery store and home. Breakfast for dinner: pork chops, eggs over easy, whole grain toast, orange juice. Baseball on the television and some internets and so very drowsy. Off to bed by ten, asleep by ten oh five.

And yes, there is now a second M. She is unrelated to the first M, probably couldn't be much more different. Maybe another time details wills be given. The second M is only mentioned now because in the midst of James' busy day it was she, not the first M, who was texting him, and, with great urgency and emotion. Drama, they call it these days. Drama seems to have engulfed poor second M. Work drama and home drama. Fortunately, unlike James, she has no health or beauty drama - she is spectacularly good looking. A tiny package of soft hair and smiles and firm curves, almost like a doll.  But a doll with dark brazen eyes and always moist lips. Come take me to lunch, James? Please come soon. Tell me you'll come soon.

And everywhere else was M.

M joins the Game while the Whore whores

Johnny has been placed over there, off to the side, out of the game. It was foreseeable and he would admit he was in too deep. Beyond his measure. I think he feels relieved to be done with her. But then Johnny doesn't understand the game. She is done with him when she is done with him. That time hasn't come yet. Enjoy the pause, Johnny. Make use of the time off to wise up. Stop being such an idiot.

She's on a plane soon. The long weekend here. The guest room hers if she wants. For her luggage, she said. And I imagine her pleased with the speed of her answer, the precision of its thrust, the winning parry. And it's now clear to me she has no idea who she bargains with. Does she think she can so easily break down the game that I've built over years of dedication?

They sit on her sofa and drink white wine. Her left leg in his lap, one of the bra straps loose at her shoulder. She speaks crisply. Precise words chosen, like an instructor. She calls him Billy, asks for his homework. His thin crummy pale face instantly flushes. Hot cheeks. He mumbles some words. Give me your chocolate milk then, and she holds out her hand. An insistent shake. He offers his wine glass, half full. Stand up, and so he does as told and faces her. She unstraps his buckle and unzips his pants, let's them fall to the floor. Let's see what you did bring for me. 

I count eighteen emails from M yesterday. There has been an escalation. Of course I noticed it. And Yes, while it was happening. So maybe M has more game than I originally thought. So what? She could never game at my pace. I can grift in my sleep. I do grift in my sleep. Dreams made of culls and false runs and slips. Unknowable colors, unless you know. She wouldn't know unless I showed her. She would have to get inside my dreams. 

She has finished with the little man with the thin crummy face. His time spent while no one was watching. Well, she was watching. And she kept her eyes on him. Showing him how grateful she was for his thin crummy cock. And when he had enough she easily took his convulsions, letting some of his dribble slide out the side of her mouth. Holding her head tilted up, like a pose. It is a pose. A snapshot for the little man to take with him. A remembrance of how hot it was. What a good time he had. His sick twisted little thin crummy snapshot. She doesn't care about any of that. She liked the taste of his dribble, the feel of his thin little crummy cock. She liked it so much she orgasmed while sucking him, which, not surprisingly, sped up the proceedings. 

It is morning and I drink my first cup of coffee. Three messages from M already. She is wordy this morning. She tells me the story of a weak game run by a weak player, a truly pitiful player. I offer sympathy, an inappropriate amount of sympathy - M can handle her shit, but, still, it just feels so wrong and I can't help but feel bad for her. Fuck him though. Loser. And M is wise enough not to attempt to exploit this show of compassion, to not even whisper a hint of the obvious - I am not impenetrable.

It all has been noted: his hygiene, length, taste, duration, specific stimuli, reaction, pre-dialogue, post-dialogue, fetish opportunities, donation and gratuity. Her penmanship is crisp and strikingly fluid. The occasional flourish. She will shower now. Freshen for her next guest. First hang the clipboard full of notes in the kitchen on the wall next to the telephone.   

More messages. M thinks me funny. Sublime funny. Guffaw funny. I send her words that are decidedly not funny, might be considered the opposite of funny. Perhaps not funny their only true meaning. She sends pictures - M in various poses. M with clothes and without. I write in progressively uglier detail and more messages follow. Why does she not back the fuck up? Why does she not quit already? Doesn't she know quit is a big part of the game? It's an end move, often a winning feign. Doesn't she know so few games make it through to winner time? Almost none, that I've heard of.

distasteful people

Sylvia's mother says she's too busy to come to the phone but thank you for calling. Do call again. Do call again after Sylvia's married. After Sylvia is (safely) gone. It is good to hear your voice and I will tell Sylvia you inquired after her. She will be pleased. Do call again. Not too soon, but do call again. (and the operator says forty cents more for - what?) Do call again. Do.

Faster now. Acceleration. Volume up now and windows down now. Cabin turbulence. Acceleration. One hand wheel one hand sky roof open. A swirl. Acceleration. Slow moving lane hogging motherfucker. Horn and finger. More volume now. Louder. Louder still. Turbulence. Motherfuckers everywhere. Horns and fingers raised. So many motherfuckers. Acceleration then. Speed.  

She greets him at the door in bra garter stocking. Half naked. She pours two glasses of Pinot Grigio, tastes her wine first before offering the other glass. He notices. He pulls her tight to him with his free hand. Cool skin. Surprisingly so. As if she is bloodless. He wants hot. He expects hot. "Open." He pours half of his wine into her mouth in a rush. She doesn't choke or gag, but wine runs down her chin, down her throat, between her breasts, over her panties and down to the floor. Now look at what you've made me do. Lick it up. 

Just last week we saw a Sylvia look alike at the coffee shop. She made our Cafe Americanos. I called you in from the patio to point her out. You seemed more confused than anything and I understood because I so poorly explained who Sylvia was. I can't explain it now either. But would it help to mention that she aborted our child? And then a few months later got on a plane and flew hours and hours to me with the expectation that she would be loved as if nothing had happened? As if she hadn't ripped me out of her at the same time? And would you understand if I said that I had to make her cry, to feel at least a little of what I felt? 

She is fully naked now. Claims, when asked, to weigh one oh seven. Plausible. She looks good. Looks like she works at it. Nice firm titties. What he likes, although he's had plenty that were fatter. A couple of sticks too. Variety, he says, and all that. He is annoyed that her skin remains cool. The implication a failure on his part. Maybe this is why he lacks playfulness when he slaps her ass. Beat some heat into that meat. 

Your disapproval was palpable when I told you that Sylvia wanted to be a flight attendant but couldn't gain the three pounds needed to make the minimum weight requirement. I was flustered seeing the look alike. And now I feel silly synopsizing her in that way. Surely she came across as banal. I didn't explain that Sylvia just wanted to fly, to get in the air, to walk the clouds, to say, Fuck you, to the limitations of the ground, or to some first class asshole. She didn't aspire to be a waitress in a flying box. It was an interlude, a phase, a whim. It was her teasing me that she could fly away and be gone. It was a warning that a couple of pounds could change everything.

The whore has a son from when she was married to the shrink. The shrink would inspect the house every evening when he came home. Meticulously followed a typed checklist he kept on a clipboard that hung in the kitchen by the telephone. And he expected a roast for dinner and later a naked wife that weighed 100 pounds when put on the scale. When in a good mood he would allow for plus or minus two pounds. His displeasure was occasionally violent but more often he used words. Fat stupid worthless disgusting and the like. At the dinner table he ate with gusto while observing every morsel that crossed her lips. He would nod when it was time for her to stop.

And the operator said forty cents more. For the next thirty years. Forty fucking cents. And he thinks it as if he hears these words for the first time. Like an instruction now. Like a command now. Acceleration now. Ignore the motherfuckers everywhere. More volume. The whirl. The beautiful fucking whirl.  

At his instruction she turns up the volume on the stereo. Louder. Louder. There. He feels the nut getting closer and he is afraid this time tears will follow and so he wants it loud enough so that the whore doesn't hear. Shameful shit if a man cries in front of his whore. But now she's got it too loud. He needs to hear the smacking flesh. The moans and yelps. Turn it down. Down. He can hear his voice over the music giving direction. This is most important. There. I said there. 

Michelle my belle. The words I know so well. Since you left me, my Michelle. My belle.

The music was not loud enough to prevent the whore from hearing his childlike bleating. His whimpering. He knew it sounded pathetic. He knew it made him pathetic. 

His weight upon her now intolerable. She can not writhe free. His weight covers her. Like a smell, she thinks. Like a stink. It is everywhere. She struggles which causes him to grip harder. To hold on, like a beguiled memory. Like it must be. Like it should be. 

The whore stops her struggle. There are worse things than stink. She will move on. And on and on and on. No looking back. On and on and on. And she might be singing. Humming lightly, at least.