“Sex and God or sex and death.” I repeated his phrase, feeling a slight slur in my speech brought on by the beer on an empty stomach. “Is that all there is?”
I was jealous of Pedro’s imaginary lovers and of his vaster sexual experience. Short poems, long poems, quirky poems, I read them in secret when he was out. I didn’t understand them. Poem after poem, sounding much alike, revealed the charms of some new image of his desire, even as he prayed for some kind of deliverance from his too, too solid flesh…
I felt that many kinds of patterns, of ancient origins, had been stamped onto our writhing, wrestling, male flesh, and that we had entered this forbidden zone many times before…
Whether I chose to feel my emotions fully, or experience the depth of them — that wasn’t up to me. That was up to God, or Satan, or whatever it was that controlled me.
Has the Shadow become more user-friendly? No. Whether now or 2,000 or 10,000 years ago, the shared identity of the Shadow and the Guide has always presented itself in the form of an ultimatum, which we must torture our minds and bodies to interpret.
That our world has already ended, of this we may be certain. But is it the end of “a world” or of “the world”? It is reassuring that the prophets of world destruction have proven almost 100% wrong—and yet…
That room is gone. Or rather, the room is still there, but what’s in it now is so different from what was in it before that the room itself seems transformed. It holds a vast model of the world we live in, built to scale and rendered in exquisite detail…
Note: The following takes place between October 2018 and January 2019. I’m not in control. I’m trusting the currents to guide my ship to safe ports, trusting the process, letting go. I’m learning along the way. The biggest lesson so far has been how to …
I look for my White Lily, but it’s gone. When I look up again, the girl, too, is gone. I’m on my own again. I wonder if I imagined her. Or maybe she imagined me, and I’m the one who’s gone.
See What You Think About This is not only an invitation to read, but a beckoning. It’s a lure to peek behind the curtain, and dares you to see if you can see what the author intended.
You must listen intently to the sound in your ears. It’s a carrier signal. The message is layered into it.
Yes. It was the Werewolf, he said. I ask him what happened.
How much further are we going? She isn’t really asking me. Just thinking aloud.
There was a boy once upon a time who lived in a small village with his mother, this father, and his sister.
So this man lived once in a fairly clean house, up along a good road. A good neighbourhood. This was the man I told you about.
Where did those men go? What men? He says he didn’t notice; had his eyes closed listening to some music the barman had put on.
Fade out. The music fades out. I say you’re a strange girl. She doesn’t reply immediately so I stay: switch channels.
Three black bags lay on the table and the telephone was ringing in the back. That’s where it was.
So in this photograph are a boy and a girl. The boys sits on the ground to the left and the girl lies on the ground to the right.
The point about the Werewolf is this: a popular conversation about categories of things.
This guy works in a store. He has a bulging gut but his heart was in the right place.
And off we set with the black bag in the trunk of the car. The drive to the restaurant is some two hundred miles of desert, mountain passes.
I was wrong. It did change. How can you hear the cries of others and not listen?
I get flashbacks of war. But I wasn’t there
Now see what you think about this: a man up along a road stood next to a tan colored car.
Letters. The writing on the brown envelope said: photocopies as requested.
As I mentioned, this isn’t my natural line of work. I just fell into it.
Every now and then the old man would rock back on his heels. Every now and then.
You must listen intently to the sound in your ears. It’s a carrier signal.
March the seventeenth. Thinking about the body guard: got shot.