B is for Stealing

[Episode #1: The fallacy of facebook is here ] Episode #2: WHY I'm not married... Theist Mom: Hon, pass me a butter knife will you? Theist Kid: (Opens drawer, twirls butter knife while singing Xena Theme Song) Theist Mom: Sigh. That’s why you’re not married Theist Kid: Yeah mom… THAT’s why I’m not married.

Episode #1:  The fallacy of facebook Heart: He likes it. He likes my status. He likes what I have to say. He must… like me. This is great. He likes me. For I am my status. I am my posts. I am my witty sayings and strong philosophical sputum. I am the religious and the reckless and he likes that. He grinds about it, but he… likes it. Likes what I wrote. Likes me. Mind: Stupid cow. He doesn’t EVEN KNOW. And how can he when you hide behind the big F. YOU… are a big F. Heart: But look at it. He gave me a thumbs up about my theories on existence. Mind: He should’ve given you the finger.

Life is not the CW. It isn’t even AMC or USA. Life is LIVE and the actors are scared and off script having rehearsed their lines all too much. Which is hilarious since some actors don’t rehearse at all. And I imagine me stooping down in front the couch where he’s sleeping. Somehow – as all sleeping people are prone to do – presence of mind wakes him up and for a moment, he’s startled. And I say to him, quite pointedly, “I’ve been crushing on you for nearly a year because… I like you. I really like you.” I haven’t figured much past that. Maybe I tell him all the reasons why it wouldn't work. Yes. That’s in the script. TV likes the whole we’re-fated-to-be-but-not-really approach to relationships. Maybe he does. Maybe he has those lines. Maybe nothing happens. And nothing will happen. For in order for this script to get past the writers room and into action,  I have to set up the scene right. I have to ACTUALLY BE THERE. Present and accounted for. It has to be performed. No...

What deceptive powers lie at the tip of your tongue? That I Would want... Would think I could sip on it and for just a short time And change the taste of salt, now trickling into my mouth. What deceptive powers. It tells me that (for a short time) I could know Truly know what it is like to inhale you Truly inhale you. This nose rubbing on yours These lips part This exchange of ideas discussed on dancing red carpets. It. Is. Deceptive. This will not last past the lie But I need you Right now I need the tip of your tongue And maybe… something more. Deceptive Powers Tracy j H 08:02:13

I have seen a hint of the danger. A smoke screen to the unimaginable. Some call it darkness. I call it Experience. And it is a teacher with a sharp tongue and an even more stinging wit. I imagine it sitting in a corner, rocking in the shadows. Which is funny since Ex is old but not feeble. Still, it rocks. Waiting. Waiting for someone to whisper a plan over drinks or strap on their heels on the path. Then it rises to come forth. Guava whip in hand, just like Primary School days, to teach a lesson. Ex… experience…  it doesn’t correct you just yet. You have to give the wrong answer first. Then comes the lash. And for every answer wrongfully delivered, another comes till you’re either sore or numbed. Who is Experience’s Master? The Heaven? The Hell? You. You are Ex’s Master. It would have stayed there in its rocking chair had you not called it up. Like a medium, you control the Experience, though the pain tells you differently. Soon you’ll be salved. The right answer...

The lover will never be loved as the lovee The lover will never know love as the lovee does He’s the guy who wants to take you to pan finals even though you hate it Even though you don’t understand the big deal He wants to wrap his arms around you as the bass pan bumps And whisper in your ear, the notes that the band is playing Bum. Bum. Bum-bumpity-bump. Bum-bum-bumpity bump…. And you laugh. You laugh at first because his breath tickles your ear You laugh because he probably skipped a beat – he who professes love of pan Knows nothing Knows less than you Funny But then the sound makes sense The rhythm of the steel-pan moves with the light swaying of his hips Moves with the tapping of his hands on your hands on your gut And you feel In your gut That this is love. A tenor pan and a guitar pan And a lover who’s trying to get you to understand That this is love Past could be and maybe… this is love. But you will never know, never fully love him...

He stripped bare, walked into the 4 am light and sank into the waters. It was cold. He didn’t feel it. Not in the way we think. The void was a local anaesthetic, it numbed the waters. … He came here to do his Naaman trick. Dip in the sea and cure himself of all impurities. Salt will cure the broken bones, the heart less cured, the bumps, the infections and the situations. … He came here to do his Naaman trick. But really, he had a plan. If this failed, if he was not cured one way, he would be free another. … A cupful of water, finds its way to the throat of the deceiver. He chokes on salt water in his bed. A spinning of water loosens the earth, and the opposer’s house floats down the river instead. A handful of water, in the pale moon light to cool the head of the lover. ... And that would be it, save the lifting of hands, save the lifting of waters, save the crashing of waves on his broken skin. Save the pulling from the shore. At 4 am...