Postpsuedomodernesque

I write things down. Sometimes they can be funny, sometimes they are sad. Most times they are pretentious and other times they are false.

Conspiracy to Live

Everything in this room is asymmetrical. Everything. The refrigerator doesn’t compliment the dirty dishes and the stove is beginning to become restless, the rust has over taken the metal on the burner and I’m sure that it’s given me some sort of disease, maybe gangrene  or herpes. I’m not sure who that rust has been with over the years. The walls crackle and shift with touch, and began to close in, but never quite gain the composure or gusto to be much of a threat. The floor seems complacent enough, but I can’t be sure of its intentions. Floors can be treacherous. I once had a friend who trusted a floor. It collapsed and he fell five stories to his death, or he was just hospitalized, or whatever.

Watching my feet as I moved across the floor (watching the floor as well). I am Indiana Jones. I am Sylvester Stallone in Cliffhanger. I try to hold onto quarters for as long as I can, but I can’t seem to keep them from falling forever into the cracks in these hardwood floors. I am alone in a studio apartment. I haven’t spoken to a single person in two days. I feel that I should go grocery shopping more frequently in an attempt to see more people. I should plan and make a long list and cook at home. People respect shoppers with lists. These people are planners. They are type A. They run the world. Or maybe they’re hungry; I can’t make these distinctions.

The mirrors in this house seem to be lying to me. They’ve made my eyes crooked and my nose large.

“Sam, where the fuck are you?” John seemed angry. John is unaware of existential crises

“My furniture is conspiring against me, and I have locked my self inside my bathroom. I think the toilet is becoming sentient as well though and I don’t like my chances here.”

“Sam, shut up, it’s four o’clock in the afternoon and you were supposed to be here an hour ago,”

“The walls are shaking, moving in,”

“You should probably call your landlord about that. I don’t think that’s supposed to happen.”

“In my mind, Sam. The walls in my mind are compressing. I can’t think, I can’t breath.”

Was it in my mind? I could swear it was in my mind, but who can be sure?

I am not crazy. There are plenty of crazy people in this world running naked on the streets. I have yet to join them. I have had the urges that we all have (I hope) of slapping pizza boxes out of people’s hands and yelling random sentiments about bric-a-brac to angry Italians. But, I do not act on these impulses; baby carriages remain unspit in and old ladies continue an unfondled existence. I’m not crazy because in spite of everything, I know my thoughts are.

“Sam, I’m still on the fucking phone,”

“Okay, I’m leaving these obstinate furnishings. To the marketplace.”

“We’re going to a fucking party you lunatic,”

“There is much more food at the market place John. We should look into changing these plans.”

“We’re not going to the marketplace. Just eat on the way.”

“Does this party have vegan foods, like cookies and the like?”

“Why the fuck do you care? We had shrimp yesterday and you eat hot dogs like every night before dinner.”

“I just want to know about the vegan offerings. What if by the time I get there I become vegan? I can’t tell when these urges may occur.

“Sam——“

“Shhhh, the walls they said something.”

“We both know they didn’t say anything”

“Oh they said something they’re being very tight lipped right now, but they said something.”

“Walls don’t even fucking have lips.”

“Neither do parrots John, neither do parrots.”

Either the walls were vibrating or John hung up on me. Either way there are things going on that I can’t begin to explain or understand. I have been screaming at random intervals to make sure that my voice box still works, and I’m not sure if I’m still doing that.

Pizza, I should go get a slice of pizza. Pizza sounds like both an expectable and possibly admirable use of my time, but does it lack the grandiose nature that I desire. If I die on my way to get a slice of pizza, what will my tombstone say? What will my obituary read? Years of learning, conditioning, psychological, pseudo-psychological and over use of the prefix pseudo will all come down to my last actions. Here lies, Samuel Haywood, he valued the slice above all other things. Fuck this, I’m ordering in. I can’t be forced to make these decisions. How can one chose their own obituary let alone lunch. These decisions are important and can’t be left up to someone as scatter brained as I.

“Alright did your laundry basket finally stop touching your genitals?”

“First of all I would ask you not to make light of the continuous sexual harassment I receive from my hamper. Second, I don’t believe my bedroom behavior is of any concern to you Mr. Lee.”

“Mr. Lee? This is again, John.”

Literary Insightfully Analytical Nonsense

"Honey, Dollface, Bird, Love.?" I sat up and lightly tapped Alison’s shoulder. "I just had the most peculiar dream."  

Alison sat up and gave me the look that always follows that sentence. A word of advice, unless the dream involves the second party no one cares to hear of it. Even then only if you are killing, maiming or screwing said party.

"Yes"

"Okay well in this dream, this very interesting dream, Hemmingway is standing inside of a boxing ring smoking a cheap cigar with his knuckles taped. He keeps taunting Tim O’brien, just a slew of insults that I would only repeat in crasser company. Tim’s just taking it looking at Hemmingway like he’s the biggest asshole, which of course, he is. Ringside there’s this little brown table, you know like the kind we saw at the consignment shop but nicer. One of those Art-Deco numbers that more pretintious [Allison scoffs] …more pretentious men might call understated. 

"Well?"

"Calm down. At this table is William S. Burroughs, Salinger and David Foster Wallace their all playing cards or dominoes or something I can’t remember. Get this. There’s a fat black woman playing with them humming something and being all wise and stereotypical. Honestly, I’d call myself a racist if is was my conscious and not my subconscious coming up with this stuff."

"Is there any point to all this?"

"It gets better, or you know, more interesting. CA Conrad, Tao Lin, and I are all standing in the corner wrapping masking tape around our genitals and debating over which looks more like a turn of the century psychoanalyst. What do you think this all means"

Alison sits even straighter up and looks me in my eyes. “It means that on your first page you’ve exhausted all of your contrived and frankly predictable literal allusions in an attempt to become associated with men far more prolific and talented than yourself.”

"Well, shit"

"There’s something worse"

"What could be worse than that?"

"You’ve now become too meta and broken the fourth wall far too early. You’re all out of easily understood gimmicks."

"Then what should I do?"

"Stop playing this game and fucking write something."

An Increasingly Accurate Display of Impending Doom [or you know whatever]

Rachel and Stephen were sitting at their dining room table. Stephen was resting the weight of a Colt revolver on the glass top. “I’ve tried this world, I really have, it’s been pleasant at times, but for the most part I’ve struggled: I’ve struggled to get out of bed, struggled to go to sleep, hell last night I was constipated. I can’t even shit without a fight in this world.”

“We all struggle Stephen, “ Rachel looked at the revolver. She winced at the indents it made in Stephen’s hand. “It’s just a part of life,”

“That’s my point, I’m tired of this and/or that being a part of life, I’m tired of being a part of life.

“So then you’re just going to leave me here with your bloody corpse and an empty apartment?”

“Do you want me to go to Lowe’s and get a tarp?” Stephen reached in his back pocket for his car keys. “ I think they’re on sale this week anyway.”

“No I don’t want you to get a tarp, I want you to throw that gun in the trash and come to bed.”

“But, then I’ll have to wake up the next morning, I’ll have an eight hour taste of what could have been and then I’ll be back to the old.” Stephen pressed the gun deep into his hair. “I’ll go out on the deck if you are that concerned with the mess.” Stephen got up from the dining room table and pushed in his chair. He moved through the kitchen and opened the French doors out onto the deck. Rachel followed him closely trying to hold his hand as he walked away.

“I don’t care about the mess, I just want you alive, if you’re intent on making a scene you can crash a car into a building or set fire to a forest,” Rachel grabbed his hand and looked into his tearing eyes. “I just want you to be here, I love you why can’t you see that I love you.”

“I believe you dear, and I love you just as much, but not as much as I hate living this life.” Stephen kept the gun planted on his temple. He stood motionless with the exception of his trigger finger, which caressed the guns chamber.

“What’s so wrong with this life, with our life?”

“Nothing’s wrong that can be fixed through conversation, I love you, but there’s nothing left in me.” Stephen pulled the trigger. The gun went off as Stephen fell to his side. Later in the week Rachel made funeral preparations, ordered a pizza and called her mother.