Warped romanticism

She was beautiful, and  as he watched her lying there in the sofa, with her head resting on the armrests and her black hair draped across the red chair, his loins stiffened. He tried to tear his eyes away from her and pulled them towards the television but his eyes caught sight of the creamy skin that was the top of her breasts, round and firm and he felt an urge, a real urge to reach out and hold them. He turned away and got up and walked to the balcony.

No one had looked at her that way for a very long time, it made her feel sexy, beautiful and so she enjoyed it, and basked in it. She felt his eyes on her, and saw him looking at he breasts. She knew he was hungry. Hungry with a deep longing. He was always hungry, especially since the void his recent failed marriage had left him. Being wanted by him though, was an achievement, every girl wanted to be wanted by him, and now, she was wanted by him. She felt beautiful, powerful.

He walked towards his seat, but he was restless, so he went to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of water. The more he tried to turn himself away, the more his eyes found its way back to her body. The top buttons on her white silk blouse remained unbuttoned, and he could see her dark beige bra that was almost the colour of her skin. He scanned the outline of her body that was lying reading on the sofa. Her red pencil skirt hugged her hips comfortably, he felt blood rush to certain parts of his body, and his hands began to sweat.

She looked behind her towards the kitchen, at him. He was well built, and something about him always made her heart skip a beat. He had the stature of a man, tall, confident strong and she wondered what it would be like to be held in his arms. She caught his eyes and he turned to look away. She turned back to her book and smiled. She was beautiful enough for him. She shifted and crossed her legs  in a way that caused the slit at the front of her skirt to split open, revealing her right thigh.

He glanced at her legs and then her thighs, and let his mind run wild, imagining what it would be like to touch that skin. He put down the glass of water and walked towards the windows. For him beauty should be consumed, whole. Her beauty was unbearable to him, and everytime he looked at her he felt a deep deep need to possess her, to have her, to consume her and to reach deep within her and draw, take, take everything that was her within himself and possess her and he drew the curtains and turned to look at her.

She looked at him, coyly at first and he came at her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He sniffed her hair and ran his nose down her cheeks, neck and stopped at her breasts. She watched him as he hungrily kissed, nibbled, and sucked at her breasts. He ran his right hand up and down her thigh before gripping her upper thigh tightly. She felt the fingers of his left hand under her skirt, her underwear, before resting it warmly between her legs. She pulled up her skirt and spread her legs open, for him.

The many minutes after passed quickly. He kissed, she kissed and he thrust as far as he could, to reach within the deepest part of her. She moaned a deep moan and in that moment they abandoned the world for one another and he moved slowly, deliberately allowing their bare skin to touch as he dived deeper and deeper into the depth of her beauty. He plunged in and allowed her beauty to flow fluidly around him, to wrap around him and he had her all to himself and he thrust himself deeper and deeper into her until he finally let out a victorious laugh and lay to rest on her, still and almost breathless. She lay beneath him, coloured and consumed.

They  door opened and they looked up from where they were. And as they scrambled helplessly from the sofa his heart dropped and the fear of what was to come washed over the intense passion and deep want that had overwhelmed him just an hour ago. He looked up to face the face he had betrayed and a sharp pain shot through his stomach and he knew his relationship with his brother would never be the same again. He looked down at his brother’s bride and closed his eyes to braced himself for what was to come.

A deep regret welled up within her, why, she thought immediately, had she done it. A stupid thing. She had just been wed, a couple of days back, and although she found him endearing, their passion was nothing like what she had just experienced.

He looked at the face of the man lying on his wife and his heart hardened. He knew his own brother would betray him one day. His fists clenched and jaws gritted in anger. He looked at the figures on the sofa and suddenly felt a deep pain. He looked at her face, and hot tears sprung from his eyes. Energy drained from him and he turned his face away. He walked out, helpless and hopeless.

She was immediately embarrassed, and regret filled her. She regretted firstly for not reigning herself, but when she searched her mind for the second arm of her regret her heart sank. She regretted, not for doing what she had done, she felt no regret for that, what she regretted was for doing it right there, in the living room, for being found out. She was not embarassed for being used and consumed. In fact she felt like she saved him. She felt like she was his salvation, the one who fed his deep hunger and satisfied him. His satisfaction gave her a deep sense of pleasure she should not be proud of. She felt like a powerful giver, goddess. She realised there and then she was like a whore. Used and consumed. And from there spun a series of thoughts that led to a beginning of what would be a lifelong hatred for herself.

Her heart was a little hollow and pleasure for her came from being pursued. She never loved him. She paused and stared at the face of the man that was still on her. She would never love him either, he would never give her the same pleasure she yearns for the second time around. She felt a sad sadness at the next thought that came to mind. She had never loved, and she may never be able to love. And then she got up, in pursuit of that fleeting feeling that rushes over her each time she seduces a new lover.

And he, he dressed and walked out of the house knowing nobody will ever do to him what he just did to his brother because deep inside, he was empty and there was no heart for anyone to ever break. Funny though, he thought, although all his life he had aimed to become heartless, he hardly felt any satisfaction, in fact he hardly felt anything. Probably because without a heart, he is unable to feel. And then it hit him, without a heart, he would always be hungry, for he will never ever be satisfied.

Moon turn moon

The moon turned upon itself. We never know which side we are looking at, its good or bad side. Frankly speaking it does not make a difference, nothing will make a difference. I had my mind made up, and this was going to be how it all ends.

The thing is, I was mistaken, I was always trying to give her what I thought she wanted, but she always had what she wanted. Always. That was what she said to me one day, that when she thinks about it, she is living the life she always dreamt of. So she said she was, the only thing was, she said, when she got there, she often found it was not really what she wanted, and she would crumble in disappointment. Crumble. Romantics often crumble at disappointment. Over the years though I think she has learnt to accept that it whenever she arrived at the destination, it will never be like how she imagined it. Never. Her imagination was too good for this world.

Six a.m. and she said she needed to finish her book. Alright, I will let her be. I knew exactly what she was thinking, and exactly what she was going to do. Everything was already in place. The kettle boiled, and she got up to make the cup of coffee like she did every morning. I watched her as she floated around the kitchen. Her graceful motions almost perfect. I scanned the outlines of her side profile and appreciated every curve, every feature. I took it in, for although she was not the most beautiful I have ever seen, she was. She was really.

She looked up at me, and smiled as she sipped her coffee. So what was the story about? She smiled, you have got to read it. Read it I will, I hardly read, but for her, I have read fiction of many kinds just so I could see the thoughts that shape hers. No, of course I have yet to understand her complicity. And yet she tells me she is simple. Simple.

She read of a little girl, and a man who were having a conversation while he was walking his dog, and I was immediately enchanted. She was always writing of innocence and perfection, innocence and perfection was always identifiable, because it was different from the rest of the world, and so hard to find. Our birth often marks the end of our innocence really, and perfection. And our whole lives, was in fact a journey to find it, again. How many of us though, know that? I thought about it, each things we experience was a slight corruption.

I kind of wish I we spent all day, I wish we had all day. But I could not deal with what I will be responsible for. I wish deeply I did not feel that way, so when she got up to get ready for work, I walked into the shower with her, and I stuck around with her for as long as I possibly can. And then I kissed her the longest, sweetest kiss ever, which of course surprised her, and she looked at me warily. I smiled and assured her it will all be alright. It would, really. I hope it would.

She chirped an I love you, which I responded to. Most of the time when I said I love you, I hardly knew what I meant, I was barely 19, barely mature enough to be honest. How much feeling could I have felt, to know enough what love meant? I wish I knew what I knew now, then I would have...wouldn't have.

I watched her turn the door, and walked out. Every thing we had done I sometimes wish we could do again, better, but woe to us, every single minute we live, is a little longer we are corrupted and robbed of our innocence. Every moment we loved, made love less perfect and the minute I walked out the door, never to return, I, knew I took steps I should not have taken. Now deep inside, really really deep inside, wished I had not walked this way. For as imperfect love was then, the further I walked away, the further I was from innocent love and I had walked out on something that could have been, love perfected. I walked out on a family, my family.

The thing is, I did not know that, I would somehow cause a death.

I am but scum

If God did exist how disappointed he would have been at the world today. I know I was. I was and all I really am to the world is the old smelly tin-can woman.

Tin-can woman they called me. I sleep where all the homeless women sleep and collect garbage for a living. Garbage and tin-cans, only because collecting tin-cans pay me enough for a little meal at the end of the day. I don’t think I remember my name, not really, or is it that I am ashamed to say it because of the way they look at me, I rather not have a name. I rather be called the tin-can woman.

The day began the same as every other day except I started out later than usual. The lady who slept in the box next to mine had stolen my canvas bag and I had to look for another. It was a good hour before I found one in the bin nearby and then I had to stitch one of the corners together - thank goodness for the old sewing kit I found two days ago.

By the time I was done someone else would already have picked up those beer cans by the main street. Early birds always got those, easy. I would have just had to wait and linger along the streets for a bit. I hate doing that, too many dirty disapproving looks from passer-bys. Dirty looks I was so used to. I know all I am is the tin-can woman. The old lady who picks up trash.

I lingered a while at this particular bin and peered inside. I heard a voice of a mother disapprovingly telling her son he needed to study hard, or else he’d end up like me, scum. Scum. I thought about that word for a moment or two and wondered what it would have been like if I weren’t born scum before a boy threw his coke can into the bin and spat at me.

I hardly get surprised at acts like that, most often I wonder what it would be like to live in the world where not being spat at is the norm but I had no right. I hadn’t even the right to get angry, after all I was scum. Maybe I deserve to be spat on. I slowly picked up the coke can and put it into the canvas bag before walking off to the next bin.

I think it was about one in the afternoon when I stopped by the hardware store. The trashcan outside the hardware store was always filled with goodies. I snuck a look at the lady at the cashier who caught my eye before turning to look away. I heard her call out a name repeatedly before grumbling when no answer came. I looked into the bin collected a few bric-a-bracs and then moved on slowly.

I reached the next street and felt a little peculiar. A white van drove past me speedily and I walked on a little and found people dispersed in a funny manner, most with nervous looks on their faces. Children seemed to stop and linger looking back while their parents pull them along. I trudged along nervously and dragged my canvas bag along and noticed a small lump lying on the road. I crept up slowly.

And then I saw her, the tiny little girl on the street. Bleeding from her eyes, nose, mouth and the back of her head. Her legs were crushed, swollen and badly bruised, and her head was turning frantically as she squirmed, unable to move. She was silent though, very silent and I stood and stared for a while unsure whether I should touch her with my dirty fingers. Two men walked past nervously without even looking at her, and a boy with his mother followed suit. The boy stopped and pointed at the girl only to be shouted at and dragged away. My heart began to fill with a certain sadness for the girl. I remembered the stories my grandmother used to tell me about needing to be helpful, and to give, and I don’t think these people have read those stories, I guess they never had the same grandmother.

A man in a van stuck his head out of the window and shouted for people to get out of the way and so I moved away thinking that finally someone would pick her up but nothing crushed me more than the next sight. He picked up speed and rolled the wheels of his van over her, first the front wheels, and then the back. He drove off without looking back. I stood and stared in shock. Was this how the non-scums of the world treated others. I let go of my half-filled canvas bag and moved as quick as I can to the little girl’s side. Her body was small, crushed and I was too scared to lift her up, but I had to and so I slid my arms underneath her.

Tears filled my eyes as I picked her up as her small voice repetitively called out, mummy, pain. Mummy, pain. Mummy, pain.

I began to lay her down on the sidewalk when a man came out of his shop with a broom and shoo-ed us away, I carried her, now my clothes drenched in her blood, and lay her down again in front of a closed store. Her fading voice continued to call our for her mother and my heart began racing as I ran from shop to shop seeking help. I was turned away, from shop to shop, and passer by to passer by. I went on to the next street, and stopped in front of the hardware store. The lady at the cashier looked up and turned away. I stood outside the shop and called out to her for help, and she turned back to look at me. I began telling her what had happened and I pleaded for her to help, at least take the girl to the hospital.

She stopped me and asked me to repeat myself slowly. She began screaming out a name frantically as she turned to look behind her. Blood drew from her face and she began yelling the name out louder, to which there was no answer. She began screaming out  another name. A male voice responded and a man, who I guessed was her husband came out and after hearing her explanation quietly followed me.

Everything went silent after that. I watched his face go pale when he saw the little girl. He shivered a little and ground his teeth and clenched his jaws. I watched him as he picked up the little girl very gently, and gestured for me to follow him. I followed. I watched him as he ran and got into the taxi, and I watched him as he lay her down on the stretcher, silently. I watched him pick up the receiver of  the pay phone to call his wife. I watched him shout the name of the hospital into the phone and slammed it down before he walked out for a cigarette.

I found a seat and sat quietly and unsure. He proceeded to the reception and enquired where the closest police station was. I watched as he came to stand in front of me saying the word police before he looked toward his wife who was approaching frantically. He greeted her coldly before shouting impatiently at her pointing at the operating theatre and she looked nervously around the hospital hoping no one noticed. She burst out crying and he turned away. He turned back to shout at her, loudly, pointing at her with his shaking index finger, you were supposed to watch her. You were supposed to watch her.

The energy drained from her and she swayed a little before stepping back with her right foot to stabilise herself. I watched her turn away weakly and scanned the room for a seat before catching my eye. She approached me and sat in the seat beside me. I sat quietly before I heard her say, I am in pain, pain, pain.
She turned to look me in the eye and whispered quietly asking me if her little girl had said anything to me. I told her what I heard her, she said mummy, pain, mummy, pain, mummy, pain. That was all? she asked. She just learnt to say the word pain, she whispered. I nodded, that was all she said.

Tears streamed down her face, and she took my hand as we sat silently, waiting. The clock on the wall ticked loudly and my heart sunk to my stomach. My body, began to ache deep inside. In that moment I realised I was hugely disappointment and it hurt me. I was hugely disappointed in the world around me and as I replayed my years of my life as the tin-can woman with the cruel words, and spit, and disapproving stares, I stopped wondering what it was like living in a world where being spat at was not a norm. I was secretly comforted by the fact that I was cast out, and I was suddenly glad I was not one of them. 

Something had shifted. 

The cruel words and spit had separated me from the cruel cruel world and I was thankful that to them I was but scum.

Race you to the end

She looked up at him and because her anger was drowned out by her shock, she was speechless. She stared blankly at his chiseled face and got up from her face down position on the floor. He was laughing, smiling at his achievement, and she could not believe what he had just done.

"Race you to the end," he said, "I will even give you a head start." She ran to the end of the corridor and as she approached the end she felt him grabbing her ankles and pulling her left leg from under her. Unbelief and shock caused her to freeze and she fell face down onto the ground as he raced past her and proudly chimed, "I won." It was hardly an action commendable. Especially not by a man who professes that he loves you, dearly. As she studied the pleased expression on his face it hit her that he could not have loved her all that dearly. Probably not even at all.

Her thoughts raced and the seeds of disgust that had been planted a while rocked back and forth as if germinating. She recalled the time when he bumped into her on the street where she was chatting to a friend, and he, to get her attention pulled her pony tail so hard that her head jerked backwards. Her friend was very taken aback by his brashness, and until that day thought she was the only one who thought him rude, obnoxious and very haughty. It was not until that day she shared her disgust, and her friend's disapproval of him as a friend, not to mention as a boyfriend, was thick and strong. There was no way, according to her, anyone could trust him to care for another. Disgust.

He seemed to throw his weight around, and her disgust of him grew deeper. As she got up to follow him down the stairs, contempt swelled up within her. She was a strong girl, one with character and personality that is until she met him. He managed to suck all that is her, out of her as he shakes his head at her flaws. She studied his beaming smile, so proud of himself, and it hit her he could not have loved her all that dearly, probably not even at all. Her disgust welled up enough to push her diaphragms outwards and fill her lungs. Suffocating.

She choked a little and tried to concentrate on the words coming out of his mouth, just so she could respond appropriately. They seated, ordered their meal and he talked on until the meal arrived. He said grace, and during grace muttered how thankful he was for his intelligence. She was unsure of whether it was a joke. He looked serious enough. She never doubted his intelligence, until he dared muttered such a prayer. It was almost as if he said it just to tell her how superior his mind was to her, a condescendment. The warped view she had of him begin to straighten out, and she begin to see underneath his display of chivalry.

Yes, it was with such an exhibit of chivalry that he went after her. Fierce and with such fervour. So much so that she believed he really was capable of loving and caring, and she, afraid of ruining a boy who had so openly and willingly professed an affection accepted his favour each time. Little did she know her incapability of saying no to that boy showed him he could walk all over her. It was with a lack of a no that started their short romance. And short it was, for a little less than a month later, he seemed to willingly and charitably give out seeds. Seeds that spawned disgust.

It was not until he raced her to the end that her eyes were willing to see. She tried to work it, of course she did, but there was another incident that had fed those seeds like luscious fat fertiliser. She recalled that tight slap he had distastefully placed on her right cheek. That episode began with a certain dinner he refused to get to, which she went alone, and upon returning found she was locked out of her own apartment. Hers not his. Fuming with anger she banged and screamed and when he opened it he challenged her. "Slap me if you are really that angry," was the remark. She did, and upon doing so found his palm on her cheek. She gasped, and he with such derision justified it immediately. "You slapped me first."

She looked at him and because her anger was drowned out by her shock, she was speechless. She stared blankly at his chiseled face and walked past him into her apartment. Her anger, instead of being expressed snuggled comfortably at the bottom of her heart and as she looked at his satisfied face  laughing, smiling at his achievement, and she could not believe what he had just done. He could not have loved her all that dearly, probably not even at all. His words and their promise shrunk and suddenly she regretted not rejecting his advances. She need not have felt so bad. His words and actions were in complete contradiction. She stared at his face in disbelief. She had never felt so cheated.

As her memory encouraged the seeds of disgust to take root and sprout she found she could not continue the mindless conversation they were having. Her food seemed to tighten into a ball at the bottom of her stomach and it began pushing its way back up to the end of her throat. She gagged. Almost vomited. She screwed her nose in disgust and in that moment realised that she despised him. Her disgust was clear as she acknowledged it. She accepted her realisation and at that point, there and then chose. It was from that point she decided she despised him.

She looked him in the eye as she set down her spoon and got up. She did not need to be bound by her fear of hurting a boy with a tender heart. There was no need. She smiled her sweetest smile and said to him loud and clear, "no, actually, I won." It was a triumphant note indeed and it was on that triumphant note she walked out and with such gusto too. She was glad for she was the first. First to reach the end of the horrid relationship.

a nice reminder on change of perspectives from David Foster Wallace...

"Again, please don't think that I'm giving you moral advice, or that I'm saying you're "supposed to" think this way, or that anyone expects you to just automatically do it, because it's hard, it takes will and mental effort, and if you're like me, some days you won't be able to do it, or you just flat-out won't want to. But most days, if you're aware enough to give yourself a choice, you can choose to look differently at this fat, dead-eyed, over-made-lady who just screamed at her little child in the checkout line -- maybe she's not usually like this; maybe she's been up three straight nights holding the hand of her husband who's dying of bone cancer, or maybe this very lady is the low-wage clerk at the Motor Vehicles Dept. who just yesterday helped your spouse resolve a nightmarish red-tape problem through some small act of bureaucratic kindness. Of course, none of this is likely, but it's also not impossible -- it just depends on what you want to consider. If you're automatically sure that you know what reality is and who and what is really important -- if you want to operate on your default-setting -- then you, like me, will not consider possibilities that aren't pointless and annoying. But if you've really learned how to think, how to pay attention, then you will know you have other options. It will actually be within your power to experience a crowded, loud, slow, consumer-hell-type situation as not only meaningful but sacred, on fire with the same force that lit the stars -- compassion, love, the sub-surface unity of all things. Not that that mystical stuff's necessarily true: The only thing that's capital-T True is that you get to decide how you're going to try to see it. You get to consciously decide what has meaning and what doesn't. You get to decide what to worship...

Because here's something else that's true. In the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And an outstanding reason for choosing some sort of God or spiritual-type thing to worship -- be it J.C. or Allah, be it Yahweh or the Wiccan mother-goddess or the Four Noble Truths or some infrangible set of ethical principles -- is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things -- if they are where you tap real meaning in life -- then you will never have enough. Never feel you have enough. It's the truth. Worship your own body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly, and when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally plant you. On one level, we all know this stuff already -- it's been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, bromides, epigrams, parables: the skeleton of every great story. The trick is keeping the truth up-front in daily consciousness. Worship power -- you will feel weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to keep the fear at bay. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart -- you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. And so on. 

Look, the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they're evil or sinful; it is that they are unconscious. They are default-settings. They're the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that's what you're doing. And the world will not discourage you from operating on your default-settings, because the world of men and money and power hums along quite nicely on the fuel of fear and contempt and frustration and craving and the worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom to be lords of our own tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the center of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talked about in the great outside world of winning and achieving and displaying. The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day. That is real freedom. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default-setting, the "rat race" -- the constant gnawing sense of having had and lost some infinite thing.

I know that this stuff probably doesn't sound fun and breezy or grandly inspirational. What it is, so far as I can see, is the truth with a whole lot of rhetorical bullshit pared away. Obviously, you can think of it whatever you wish. But please don't dismiss it as some finger-wagging Dr. Laura sermon. None of this is about morality, or religion, or dogma, or big fancy questions of life after death. The capital-T Truth is about life before death. It is about making it to 30, or maybe 50, without wanting to shoot yourself in the head. It is about simple awareness -- awareness of what is so real and essential, so hidden in plain sight all around us, that we have to keep reminding ourselves, over and over: "This is water, this is water." It is unimaginably hard to do this, to stay conscious and alive, day in and day out."

Full text of David Foster Wallace's speech on WSJ.com