I think you might wear down the callouses on my hands. I’d be so calm and sorted besides you I wouldn’t wring them together, rubbing my skin to shreds at the thought of being alone, I might just relax I might just relax.
This, Is Frank.
Frank is a moth that my roommate and I found last night, and in the process of trying to capture and release outside our apartment, ended up naming, and creating an elaborate backstory for.
Frank is a moth with severe dementia. He is married to his wife named Marge who sounds like a stereotypical Jewish grandmother from Staten Island (it was late, we weren’t going to be creative about our old moth-y female figures).
I’m considering writing a children’s book called, ‘Frank! Get the Fuck Out of Here!” similar to the style of Adam Mansbach’s brilliant, “Go the Fuck to Sleep”. (Which, if you haven’t read, you should definitely get here, and listen to Samuel L. Jackson read it here). I know what you’re thinking, “Wouldn’t a book like that probably be heavily criticized by those severely affected by moth dementia?”
To those people I say, “Fuck you. I’m affected by it too. I don’t want to kill Frank, and I don’t care if he hangs around but he consistently forgets basic facts about his size and stature in relation to MY size and stature and ends up near my shoes in the hallway and one night I WILL accidentally squish him in what some may see as a drunken rage, but I will simply see as a drunken haze.”
In the coming weeks, I’ll pull together some concept art for you all to enjoy, and maybe even some selections from the book itself.
You never know, maybe I can get someone from Staten Island to read the book too.
For… Erhm… Consistencies sake. Yeah. That.
This room is an echo chamber for every move I make. I can hear my new dress shoes click and clack on the exposed and unfinished tile from all directions.
I’ve always hated that sound, so I decide to slide my feet across the floor, letting the bumps in the rock trip me up. I stumble and slide my way to the pew and rest my hand against the polished wood. Unbuttoning the top button on my suit I slip into the stiff backed bench. It’s cold and unforgiving to sit in these like you mean it, so I didn’t even try, slouching over my knees.
The paper in my hand is crisp. I’ve folded it precisely so it would fit in the oddly shaped inner pocket of my suit. I tried putting it in my back pocket, but I was afraid it might crumple against my wallet. So instead, I had form-fitted it to the pocket over my heart, too small for my cell phone and too big to fit a pack of mints without it rattling around and alerting anyone and everyone to my presence.
This was the kind of day I didn’t want to be seen.
If I mean what I meant and I meant what I mean would I still be regrets and would you still be my dream?
Every time I turn to chapter two, I forget the main character’s name or the way the author said he walked.
I figure, what can one more read hurt? It’s not like I’m going anywhere.
Plaster yourself against the wall, hope that this is nothing, nothing at all.
Call all your old regrets to sing them to drinking, let them all wish this was nothing at all.
Nothing at all.
Closing your eyes isn’t looking away, you’re just staring at eyelids and replacing them with nothing at all.
Nothing at all.
It’s simply breathing, but sometimes you have to remind yourself that the simple things can be broken down into complicated reminders.
Everything must work perfectly. Therein lies the beauty, and the perfect imperfect reality.
We are precise. Even when we are sick, we are poised factories that consistently and constantly power ourselves with a molecule. Even when we are dying, our bodies are still trying. We’re just missing that one piece.
We are a small puzzle. The ones you played with as a child. Twenty pieces maybe, no tricks, just a picture of Mickey Mouse standing proud. The sides are easy, the insides almost already laid out in order from when you opened the box and the plastic bag inside and poured them out on the coffee table near the television.
You are watching friends absentmindedly, ignoring the overt sexuality of the episode your mother is laughing at. You laugh too, because you feel better when you seem smarter, not realizing how naive you instead seem.
Those pieces fall into place, the puzzle sits there, complete, and you sit there, complete.
How long it will be though, until you are completed.
The puzzle always was. Were you?