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The black lacquer samurai suit did scream Darth Vader.
My response: What? You mean Darth Vader wasn't a samurai? I'm sure I can concoct some visual analysis of why he could be considered a samurai.
Let us start with the light saber or we could rename it the katana of light. Smooth like butter, it slices and dices the flesh, just like its steel equivalent.
Particular to Darth Vader, he serves a master. He is the Emperor's right hand in controlling the peasants of the galaxy. When he loses his master, he becomes the ronin, and commits himself to die.
Four of my teeth fell out. My right canine, got wiggly, like when you are 6. As I pulled it with my fingers there was a small snap and out it came. A large blue vein pulsed within its hard enamel. The second one, the premolar, dropped on my tongue. Plop!
Next the first molar. Then the final molar. Out they fell, like the first had been keeping the subsequent ones in place.
It was the loss of this final tooth that made me cry. It was huge and spongy. It was rotting, but without the blackness of a cavity.
Anger is combined with the sadness. So much gone to shit in my life. Unbearable. Insufferable. When you left her you left me too. No need to visit. No interest in anything that is going beyond your own little shit-hole town. I want to yell. I want to rage. Stomp and simper. Can I be a bratty child for just ten minutes? Have a tantrum. Hate and rage. Finally I can pick out those emotions. Identify and dispassionately catalogue them. I don't love you any more. You aren't dead to me, but at this moment, you are as good as.
My thought is a prism. It catches the light in almost the same way when I look at it. Today I turned out the light. The thought glowed in the darkness. When I looked I saw my thought a different way. The prism had shifted, the axiom had shifted slightly.
Fascinated, I turned the light back on. The prism caught and reflected the artificial external light as well as radiated the internal glow from the darkness. When I shifted the thought, a crack appeared on the surface distorting the reflection and radiation.
My thought was compromised. The experiment a success.
Klutz. My luck has flown away. Gone far away.
Bruised my shins.
My black velvet jacket is soaked with water and unwearable.
Stubbed my toes. Now they are bruised.
I didn't get the job.
My parents are getting divorced.
All my computers run slow.
The varnish gave me a wicked headache.
Cut my hand.
There are secrets I need to share.
The tap water is brown.
At the rate this is going, I have to hope I won't crash the car on the way home.
It is all complaints. Got a bad case of the blues and no way shake'em.
It has rained for days. Outside, the red and orange leaves are wet, stuck to the car windows. The windshield wipers can't wipe the grey clouds from the sky. Turning the wipers off the drops of rain obscure my view. The red tail lights reflected hundreds of times in little droplets.
In my head the rain comes and goes. Eyes tear up. Slow drops run down my cheeks. The world blurred by water.
The weather is dependent on many different factors like the winds, moisture, sun and rotations. Perhaps the fall just isn't my season. Too much has happened recently.
"Kupka, you look like you have something to say."
"This writing gig, it feels like something is missing. Here I am putting thoughts, feelings, fuck-ups out there. I'm wondering what my written voice sounds like to others."
"What made you think of this? Are you now looking for feedback?"
"Music. I can hear how the artist wants me to feel in the vocalizations. There is no sound with my words..."
"So, are you going to put up an email address, Kupka?"
"Nope. Just thinking I should read some of this stuff aloud, just to myself. How would they sound?"
I sat down opposite her.
"TRacy, you need to understand there is no tabula rasa. Even in the womb, we begin our experiences. My mother use to sing to me, you see. In the womb, I could hear her voice sing opera, sing along with the radio.
JASon could never be a clean slate for you. There is no relationship that can start out like that. We all bring our experiences with us. Even virginity, is an experience that is built on. We can mold what we are given, but there is nothing blank about the way things start out."
Coffins stand in for people. Madame Recamier replaced by a beautiful wooden piece reclining on a settee. Manet's balcony, too. All the beautiful women replaced by pine death boxes.
Everything dies, falls apart, changes, ceases to be what it was. I try to create to replace the losses. I can't replace the memories. If I substitute a lovely coffin for the people in them, it could make them easier to experience.
Stop cutting out those you hate from your favorite photographs, just paste over them with a coffin sticker. Move beyond the simple pine box to the luxurious metal kind.
Got it! Got it! Need it. Got it!
Did you get the three broken hearts?
How about the one where you fall madly in love with the wrong person?
Got that one too.
Does the abortion count as a pregnancy?
But, you did get the abortion?
Oh yeah. Got that one.
How about the failed marriage?
No. But, I've got three of the dysfunctional family.
Need it. Can I trade you one of my shitty jobs for one of those?
Naw, I got a few of those already. They come around all the time.
We were together two years ago.
Do you remember?
Four months of foreplay came to an end. A beautiful first time.
Sitting, looking at that book. Drinking coffee. Eating clementines.
Remember, I was stroking your thigh. Slowly sliding my hand higher. Your cock hard again when I reached it.
In the shower, you washed my hair. The only lover I've had who has done that.
Aphex-twin, was it that time or another? I don't remember.
You showed me your subterranean space.
I barely remember.
The pain that I feel in my chest. Mistakes. Lies. Loss. I'll never forget.
How would I ever do this if I hadn't had instruction? I learned:
Schwarze is black
Kreide is chalk
Rotel (leaving off the umlaut) is red chalk
Selbstportratum is selfportrait
but what the hell was Gelandeschnitt?
Those compound German words are killer. Just killer.
Take it appart:
Schnitt is build (possibly)
Gelandes to start is a plural word. Remove the 's'. Gelande could be many things, but terrain is the only one that fits.
Building terrain is a good guess. Does that fit with what I'm seeing?
German is word puzzles.
But, please do not forget to capitalize the nouns.
Wal-mart is better than the local bar.
We stood waiting to pay for six pairs of socks and a bag of fruit-of-the-looms.
"When is the movie industry going to start phasing out regular DVDs?"
"The more pertainent question is when is the porn industry going to start filming in HD? I want to seem some vein-y cocks close up."
The older guy in front of us, with the 10 cans of Mr. Gouda's red kidney beans and 4 jugs of motor oil, glared at me in disbelief.
So I added, "You'd really be able to see who has genital warts."
-Look here! (my hands grab my tits) Don't you want to touch these?
-Um, they're nice. Just not right now.
-I've pranced around in this shirt all day. It gives nice cleavage, don't you think?
-Why don't you do that up? The neighbours might see.
-The curtains are closed. Did they guy across the way suddenly get x-ray vision?
-Um, do we have to discuss this now? You're being rather selfish.
-Even the cat likes my tits. Thinks they're pillows for his little furry head.
-You're breasts are great. Okay?
-Sure... whatever. Nevermind.
-Hmmm? What? Oh, don't be like that!
Attention film makers, anticipation is a dangerous thing. Alien freaks me. The slow anticipation.
Delayed gratification. The scares build with the tension.
Dude, close the door or the alien will get out.
Is that the alien? Whew, it was just the cat.
My legs twitch from nerves.
What does it look like?
Where's the alien? Is it hiding in the ceiling?
Oh god, it has shed it's skin.
The tension builds again. Palpitations.
Run hands through hair to hide my shaking hands.
Where is the fucking alien? Would it just pop out and kill someone already?
FUCK. THERE IT IS.
There we sit, side by side. You stroke my hair, starting at the top of my head slowly sliding your hand down towards my neck. You tangle your fingers gently pulling the long strands. Your hands reach the bare skin of my neck. Then your hand moves to start again at the top of my head.
I feel safe. Childhood safe, where nothing can hurt me. They tell me that I mean the world to you. I'm wanted.
In that moment we're just two people who need to sit beside each other and connect, hand to hair. Hand to head.
I glare at her. She that can't be phased or interrupted. Useless blather continued to spew forth from her mouth.
The next time she mentions her kids, I'm gonna do it!
Sure enough, "check out the photo of my son. Here, look on my cell phone..."
Enough! I take the wad of leftover lunch napkins off the table and stuff them in her mouth.
Next, my handknit scarf is quickly tied tight around her mouth. It's long enough to also tie her hands to the chair. Nasal breathing sounds.
Her eyes glare at me in disbelief.
"Next topic, please!"
I am in my work. Writing myself in to and out of 100 words a day. I can lose myself, yet find myself. The big brains don't totally understand. They get caught up in questions that can't be answered, merely hypothesised.
I would dub it puzzle making. There is no box with an image to follow. Pieces are found at random in hidden corners. Some fit. Some are made to fit with packing tape and rubber cement.
The small brains don't question at all. They exist from moment to moment.
Depth to the ocean bottom versus shallow verging on evaporation.
These things are not important to me.
Does 1080p, or is it 1080i, really impact my viewing pleasure when the regular TV signal does not display at that resolution?
Sure, the HD movies look supa fly, though I can see the dust particles they forgot to clean off the film, because it is so crisp, so clear.
I can tell you there is too much red in the picture. It is too dark. It is too light.
It is a case of the shoemaker's kids having no shoes. I don't want to spend my time agonizing over the picture quality.
She Said No And Meant It
He held her hand, gently stroking her palm. "I would like to marry you," he said.
She looked at the collar of his shirt. The black with the white square, a priest. "You have already committed to God," she said. "No, I don't think we should be married."
"I am in love with you. I want to leave this church for you. Never did I think that I would find a love like this."
She stared in to his eyes, "No. It wouldn't be right in the eyes of God."
For dear Helen V.
He heard the car pull up, but didn't hear the door open. Looking out the window, she was going through her backpack. Out came her note book. What was she doing, he wondered. Why was she not coming in the house?
He noticed her lips moving. Talking to herself.
He questions her when she comes in the door. She says the car is quiet. The ideas pass if she doesn't write them down. He states that she wouldn't forget a good idea. It will be there later, write it down then.
My mind does not work that way, she says.
Bzzz. Bzzzzzz. Bzz.
What are you doing? I'm not a topiary. Be careful!
There are just a few stray hairs longer than the others.
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzz.
I think you better look in the mirror...
Who did you think you were? You aren't Edward Scissor Hands. He'd have given me a much better hair cut!
Look at this patch. Oh God! Do you think it will grow back?
Let me trim it a little closer. It won't look so obvious!
Bzzz. Bzz. Bzzzzz.
It still looks bad.
Don't worry, I'll laugh about this later.
Three lanes of black asphalt with broken shiny white lines. In the black sky, a sliver of crescent moon hangs above two, almost solid, ribbons of white and red light-based dots.
The city highway is far away, with its orange arch-sodium pools of illumination. Headlights in this suburban darkness show what is just ahead. No interest in the bright city left behind, slowly replaced by unending blacks and greys.
Cloth seats and heat combined with the unending black insulate an enclosed world. The car engine hums, slight crescendos as the accelerator is depressed. Racing towards the white slice of moon.
Suited man: Look at this! You will create a sketch based on this image!
Me: Sure. I'll do what I can.
What am I doing? I can't write comedy. Okay, look at the picture he's holding.
Picture: top half person with a bag on their head, drawn in black ink on white paper, bottom half same person, same bag, only the bag has a faint smile draw on it.
This isn't funny. I'm not funny. How in heavens did I get this writing gig?
Suited man: Well? Any ideas?
Me: Not yet boss! Something will come to me.
The local mall had an antiques market. Once a month vendors filled the open stretches inside with their wares. Old tables and bedroom sets, next to stalls of gaudy costume jewelry, assorted knick-knacks and collectibles.
Scanned tables looking to have my eye caught by something. Tables and tables of nothing of interest.
One table down near the end, the sign reads 1920's coffee cups, 6 for 20. Those cups, with the browny-orange pattern of flowers and butterflies, are more from the 1960s. They are only 99 cents at the local second hand store. Some schmuck is going to get jobbed.
I think there has been some kind of mistake. There is an invitation here in my email inbox. Come to our party, it says.
We haven't talked in decades, though we hear of each other through the parental grapevine. You would know my face and my features, but wouldn't know me from the girl you knew in high-school.
In this case, I won't even respond. I'll just assume you sent it to a pre-existing list from which you forgot to remove my name. I will secretly wish you luck with your new wife, your move and with your educational opportunity.
Speeding and charging across three lanes of traffic to make the needed turn. Go. Go. Go.
The squeal of brakes. Sounds of metal on metal. Popping of tires. Unidentifiable Screeches. Horns. Breaking glass and plastic. Unseeing. Not looking. Injuries. Ambulances. Tow trucks. Police and fire departments. Multi-car pile-up. Closed road. Traffic tie ups. Radio announcements.
Months of rehabilitation. Thousands of dollars of body work. One write-off. Broken times. Lost friends. Lost work. Rush, rush. Go. Go.
Trade a fragile life for speed and fragile bodies for the insignificant moment. Sacrifice someone else, another life, for your stupid mistake.
My subconscious is working on a theme, you see.
Monday night, we're both naked. Your hard cock pressed to my hip. Too soon, you've come and I have not.
Tuesday night, as an observer. I'm not allowed to participate in an orgy of naked guys and gals. It feels clinical this time. No arousal. Mechanical.
Wednesday night, the innocence of driving a limousine turns in to terrific threats of anal rape by several males all refuse to wear condoms.
Tonight I'm terrified to sleep. I don't know how my dreams could get much worse, but I'm afraid that they could.
Ten years ago I started watching Reservoir Dogs. Over time, as to be expected, I forgot what I had seen. I could remember someone's ear was cut off. But, what really made me leave the room was the entire scene of Mr. Blonde torturing the cop duct taped to the chair. It was just too much for me to take.
Ten years later, I finally finished watching this movie. The violence doesn't bother me any more. Hell, if I can watch two men fight professionally, for money, well then, watching a movie with this kind of violence seems like nothing.
One Christmas you gave me a ring. Pour Tous Jours it said on its silver band. After six months it split open at the resizing seam. We had it patched up again. Three years later the split redeveloped.
There was a plain silver band. A token worn to Vancouver then worn for many years after. It held together. It left a thin silver scar on my index finger after catching it on the door frame.
One final ring, forgotten and hardly worn. Greek key motif spins around the centre. A pity present or a guilt present, still pristine and shiny.
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