meet my contraband father.
so so raw. you can't edit life.
is acting sort of strange tonight.
he turns all our small jokes into something quiet and kind and i know something is on his mind, because he very damn well knows the difference between playing and being serious. he knows the rules of our game, having written them, and i don't understand why he's breaking them. he must have a reason, though. he's a very simple person. if he does something unusual, he has a good, deliberate reason for why he's doing it.
i'm a beautiful hellion screaming glory, and my best friend and i are basking in one another's company, flying almost like moon angels and laughing because we can't help it. he scowls like he doesn't like it, but everyone knows better.
once, there is something in my way; an obstacle for me to step on and fall and re-injure myself. that's the last thing that anyone wants, especially him. i am his girl, after all. it's not like he makes a secret out of it.
(sometimes, it scares me to think about just how much we love each other. it's the kind of love that could be fatal some day if we're not careful, and god knows he's not a careful man.)
he's watching me, and he doesn't want me to slip, so he kicks the old broken board out of the way. he makes a joke out of it, because that's what he does. it's how he deals with life. he makes a joke out of it.
"let me get that out of your way," he says. it clatters to the side.
"thanks," i tell him. i only look up from my work for just long enough to grant him a grin. then it's back to business as usual, and right now is when the joke is supposed to end and he's supposed to walk away, but he lingers.
he leans in close to me, and, very quiet, in a strange, serious voice, tells me, "it's my job to take care of you, you know."
and that's when i know that something isn't quite right.
later, he makes up an excuse to talk to me alone. it's all a joke, it's all a joke, and i am laughing and covered in a beautiful sheen of sweat, and it's all a joke because that's all anything ever is with him. he traps me at the beginning of the hallway, putting his hands up like a mime trapped inside a box of air. "i've gotta talk to you," he says, and it's a joke it's a joke it's a joke, and that's what keeps me laughing. it's all a joke, so my hands mirror his. "seriously," he says, trapping me, walking me backwards down the hallway into the vacent room. his palms are thick and calloused and strong and rough and four times the size of mine. i've always had small hands. something about linking my fingers through his makes me feel an overwhelming combination of safe and terrified, but it's all a joke so it's okay.
he shuts the door and it's not a joke anymore.
the powers that be are planning on putting me into a tough situation, he says. we both know that he's a member of that influential committee, so at first i tell him i don't want to. "you don't have a choice," he says.
the conversation winds around and around and around. i'm concerned about my studies. he's concerned about my future as a star martial artist. i want to go to college. he wants me to participate in a rank promotion ceremony in front of one of the highest-ranking black belts in the country.
i try telling him again that i don't want to, and again he says that i don't have a choice. it's a joke, i tell myself, but who am i kidding? there's no way in hell that this is a joke. he's damn serious.
"we can work your schedule out," he tells me. "i know how you are about being here, and i also know how you are about school, but we'll work something out." i can talk in circles, but he zigs when i zag and unties my logic. "you're doing it," he says very matter-of-factly. "you're one of our top candidates and you're doing it."
the climax of this very un-normal exchange comes towards the end, when he looks me in the eye and puts a hand on my shoulder and says, "it's all about balancing your life. balancing being here, and school, and everything else you want to do. if you do this, i'll look out for you. i won't let you fall behind in your studies, but i really don't want you to totally stop coming here. i care about you." we are both quiet for a few moments, but for different reasons. he's thinking carefully about how to finish his statement, and i am still waiting for the punch line. his whole life is based around turning everything into a joke, which he has yet to do. "i want to help you put balance back into your life. alright?"
i don't really know what to say to that, so i nod and tell him that that's okay. and that's that and that's the end of our discussion; and it's okay now because the world goes back to being funnier than it actually is. it's all just a joke.
so it's kind of funny because four hours later i'm still not laughing, yet.
Words by MiVidaDeEpílogos.
Read 1186 times
Editors' choice
Written on 2006-07-27 at 05:13
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
so so raw. you can't edit life.
You'll Have To Think For Both Of Us, Now. Can You Do That, Richard?
heis acting sort of strange tonight.
he turns all our small jokes into something quiet and kind and i know something is on his mind, because he very damn well knows the difference between playing and being serious. he knows the rules of our game, having written them, and i don't understand why he's breaking them. he must have a reason, though. he's a very simple person. if he does something unusual, he has a good, deliberate reason for why he's doing it.
i'm a beautiful hellion screaming glory, and my best friend and i are basking in one another's company, flying almost like moon angels and laughing because we can't help it. he scowls like he doesn't like it, but everyone knows better.
once, there is something in my way; an obstacle for me to step on and fall and re-injure myself. that's the last thing that anyone wants, especially him. i am his girl, after all. it's not like he makes a secret out of it.
(sometimes, it scares me to think about just how much we love each other. it's the kind of love that could be fatal some day if we're not careful, and god knows he's not a careful man.)
he's watching me, and he doesn't want me to slip, so he kicks the old broken board out of the way. he makes a joke out of it, because that's what he does. it's how he deals with life. he makes a joke out of it.
"let me get that out of your way," he says. it clatters to the side.
"thanks," i tell him. i only look up from my work for just long enough to grant him a grin. then it's back to business as usual, and right now is when the joke is supposed to end and he's supposed to walk away, but he lingers.
he leans in close to me, and, very quiet, in a strange, serious voice, tells me, "it's my job to take care of you, you know."
and that's when i know that something isn't quite right.
later, he makes up an excuse to talk to me alone. it's all a joke, it's all a joke, and i am laughing and covered in a beautiful sheen of sweat, and it's all a joke because that's all anything ever is with him. he traps me at the beginning of the hallway, putting his hands up like a mime trapped inside a box of air. "i've gotta talk to you," he says, and it's a joke it's a joke it's a joke, and that's what keeps me laughing. it's all a joke, so my hands mirror his. "seriously," he says, trapping me, walking me backwards down the hallway into the vacent room. his palms are thick and calloused and strong and rough and four times the size of mine. i've always had small hands. something about linking my fingers through his makes me feel an overwhelming combination of safe and terrified, but it's all a joke so it's okay.
he shuts the door and it's not a joke anymore.
the powers that be are planning on putting me into a tough situation, he says. we both know that he's a member of that influential committee, so at first i tell him i don't want to. "you don't have a choice," he says.
the conversation winds around and around and around. i'm concerned about my studies. he's concerned about my future as a star martial artist. i want to go to college. he wants me to participate in a rank promotion ceremony in front of one of the highest-ranking black belts in the country.
i try telling him again that i don't want to, and again he says that i don't have a choice. it's a joke, i tell myself, but who am i kidding? there's no way in hell that this is a joke. he's damn serious.
"we can work your schedule out," he tells me. "i know how you are about being here, and i also know how you are about school, but we'll work something out." i can talk in circles, but he zigs when i zag and unties my logic. "you're doing it," he says very matter-of-factly. "you're one of our top candidates and you're doing it."
the climax of this very un-normal exchange comes towards the end, when he looks me in the eye and puts a hand on my shoulder and says, "it's all about balancing your life. balancing being here, and school, and everything else you want to do. if you do this, i'll look out for you. i won't let you fall behind in your studies, but i really don't want you to totally stop coming here. i care about you." we are both quiet for a few moments, but for different reasons. he's thinking carefully about how to finish his statement, and i am still waiting for the punch line. his whole life is based around turning everything into a joke, which he has yet to do. "i want to help you put balance back into your life. alright?"
i don't really know what to say to that, so i nod and tell him that that's okay. and that's that and that's the end of our discussion; and it's okay now because the world goes back to being funnier than it actually is. it's all just a joke.
so it's kind of funny because four hours later i'm still not laughing, yet.
Words by MiVidaDeEpílogos.
Read 1186 times
Editors' choiceWritten on 2006-07-27 at 05:13
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Inked. |
|
Christian Ward |
|
Kathy Lockhart |
|
PoeticProcrastination |
