Title: half underwater bookstore Author: # outlet # the rule was, you had to leave something--literally anything, just as long as it was not nothing--every time you went in nobody knew what would happen if you broke that rule. none of us had dared to try and find out. I’m whipping Fiestaware plates like chainsaw blades (though for some reason they don’t break) at all the goodguys who enter the room. It’s theatrics really, part of a grand showdown between good and evil that I know I am going to lose, because that’s just how the story goes, but it’s fun while it lasts. When I run out of plates, I move on to the liquor bottles. I smash a tequila’s neck off and use the broken-off neck as a shot glass. You come in with a laptop. You’re working on homework and want help with something. “Did you know art is just random collections of bits and pieces? That you—” “Yes I did know that, or, at least, I knew that when I was a kid. But then I got to be a demon king, and I was like, you have to do this, and you have to this, and this goes here, and this goes there, and it’s not as fun anymore. There are some advantages; your capabilities get greater. But your flexibility is limited. I think the person who chooses to be a lifelong artist is the person who finds ways to say ‘fuck you’ to the limitations on randomness.” “Sure, dad. But for this, all I need you to do is look at this paragraph. I... [scrolling through document on screen] Oh look, someone has been here already...” It says something like *...I hope you know that being here, just being here, is the greatest privilege of my...* “...should we see who it is?” I’m inwardly smiling because I already know it was me, from way way back, from before, when we were both still basically kids. ---- # sunshine straight thru the window # ---- ## kitchen ## we were sitting there you were running your fingers thru my hair until it started bugging the shit out of me and i shook my head back and forth and squinted up my face to let you know (eventually you stopped.) the eastern window cast an angular spell on the blonde of the kitchen table and of the tiny, fine hairs on your forearm as you reached across, took my hand, and said: let’s go shopping. i want to pick out a bunch of little outfits for you! and i knew at 7:01 that morning that my life had finally begun ---- # there were many ways in though # the curious green loamy smell of his underarms lingered in my memory as the empty husks of saved and/or abandoned objects linger in the basement years after the energy of active love has passed through them --the energy of a wave passing through salty water --teeming with chaos and life ---- ## mouse hole ## kitten walks slowly up, rubber-band undulations of her spine across the kitchen floor like shadows prowl the family of mice on the other side of the baseboard armed to the teeth ready for anything life gets back to normal ---- ## non stop flight ## you could always just buy a plane ticket she said we can afford it i'll buy it for you! she smiled so sweetly, it made my heart ache and my cock hard so i went i went back to the land of magic (lol) but the funny thing about the land of magic is it's never the same twice. this one's kind of boring so far. i don't know how long i've been here. i miss her, i guess, in a way, but i don't really remember her. i just remember a specific thunderstorm, close the frickin door! she said she screamed it but it was too late and the howling tornado blasted through the kitchen puffed out its chest blew out all the windows and laid us both on the floor and her hair went out all wild like a mythical mane and her eyes were hard and bright and fucking crazy and the most alive thing i had ever seen and now i’m here and she’s back there and the one thing she didn’t tell me about the ticket— funny— is that it was a one way ticket nonnegotiable nonrefundable irreversible thank god for that i mutter to myself absentmindedly as i scan the surrounding desolation for any sign of life but i’m not asking for pity. i’m not the victim here. i’m a sneaky bastard. i’ve had to be ---- ## smirking mansion ## he said look around! who do you think will say something first? and he started banging a spoon against his glass— DANG DANG DANG DANG DANG DANG DANG DANG DANG DANG DANG DANG... no one’s gonna stop us! who do you think will say something first? go ahead, ruin it burn it all down he said it’s factions it’s all just warring factions all the way down (until you get to the level of family) family is the only ones you can trust (note: sometimes you can’t) Immediately disbelieve anyone who says “there is absolutely zero chance” or “there is no way that will happen” At that point, it doesn’t even matter what side they’re on. They’re either stupid or lying Get your shit together. Pack your bags. See to your affairs. ---- ## the den ## ---- ### hey there's a jukebox in here! ### why do you romanticize fear? i am afraid i am scared i fear for my life and the lives of my children and you are still telling romantic tales of a time before all of this of a time before god came and ruined our ignorant bliss just a little bit drunk just a little bit high you come sashaying by the unreal green of the billiards felt the starlight gleam of the quarters on the rail the carmine laugh of your carmen dress the barnyard bell of the glasses at the bar the drinkers carousers and disaffected open mic-ers, the stubbly, the hesitant, the confident, the waterbed pulsing of the tops of all the heads from the vantage of a cordial cavatica spinning forgiveness into her eternal web just a little bit drunk just a little bit high i get the nerve up to say hi and this may sound weird but (your eyes laugh) you look like maureen in that dress and you toss your head back like a country song and snort marie! get a load of this one! and then you look at me, and say you rack. i’ll break i used to worry about being smart well not smart but educated well not educated but wise well not wise but bookish, you know? but not bookish in a mousey sense; bookish like “can whip out a sword because he read all about fencing;” “can identify each flower in your hair;” “can charm you;” but not like the dork with the bad haircut by the river bank when the dashing con-man comes along; no; the one with a pistol or without; the one that no matter what can protect you enfold you release you respect you drink deeply of you in awe of you then come back up for air and make you laugh. but now i basically just worry about being able to come in here at all, to be allowed to come in here at all and say this kind of random shit to you. In some ways it’s possible to look at writing as “a STEM thing.” It’s intriguing; it’s a puzzle; it’s a game; it’s a flow state. To solve for “What is the most effective way to express this thing...” You have to know: - what the thing is - to whom you’re trying to express it - who “you” are supposed to be - what “effective” means in this case - what tools you have at your disposal - how to use them - how to balance reasoning with intuition You just have to learn a new programming language—child’s play for a programmer, right? Not only “my native language,” aka “water to a fish;” but also language as holodeck, rubic’s cube, time machine, already-fully-functioning artificial intelligence, infinite recursive canvas Damn you. I came here because it smelled like you. OK? Are ya happy now? You got me to admit it? Yay. You win. Here you go. Here’s the big prize, the grand payout: I’m in love with you. OK? Always have been, always will be. Oh and I’ll smack you across the fucking ugly mug if you ever make me say that again. (lol) No but seriously, I came here because it reminds me of you, and because I miss you, and because I wanted to talk to you, just hang out and be together and do whatever stupid bullshit with you, you know, like we used to. I mean I came here for the words, found the scent of you, stayed until the rain let up the only rule here is that every time you come in, you have to leave something. that’s all she said. then she left. then she came back: and one more thing. can you please remember to flush the fucking toilet? Perfect. the first blank page i’ve faced in a long ass time gotta be honest, it’s kinda creepin me out he fumbled and went back to his script: “When they first dropped us in here, they set it so that 99% (or so) of everything would be pointless, painful, odious, malodorous, annoying, fly-attracting horseshit.” (it was one of those times when just saying something isn’t enough to make it not true)