Powers of Ten #2

Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.

-Oscar Wilde

Some say I'm a bitch. I'm not a bitch, I just tend to drink a lot and when I do, usually I say whatever I want and it is always just a coincidence that there are people around that hear what I say and then get offended because what I'm saying is the truth and the truth hurts when it's right, and what's so bitchy about letting out a little truth once in a while, a little bit of genuineness in a world of people that are too caught up with manners and conventions to really understand how meaningful and freeing it is to just speak the truth? A bitch.

The other night I was at my ex-lover's CD release, and he is playing through the collection, making women of all walks drip and droop like red candles. I am sitting outside having a glass of red, talking to some of his friends, guys I knew back when he and I were still a thing. Next thing I know I am being asked questions about why I am there, about what I am doing now. I tell them one at a time. If it starts to become a group thing, I make sure to keep the intruders out.

"I just started school again. But I wasn't talking to you." I think I said that.

The truth is that I have come back to show him that I want him for good. I want him to have me forever, like a doll or porcelain jar or a mop -- I don't care what, I just want to be owned. I can't handle myself, because there is too much energy inside and the repair work on my own mind is never ending and beyond all hope now and UGH! I take another glass. Red. Love. Blood. Murder.

Murder. Dying. Dead things. Yes! It makes sense, out there, sitting outside his performance, as I piece the steppingstones down, walk them with a staggered limp, trace them back to the beginning. I know death. Death has taught me directly about disappearing, playing hide and go seek and never getting out of the trash can. And it's normal to me, because sometimes I feel as though I have already died. I am okay with death. What does that mean? I am uncertain, and it drives me into the fast lane, into confusion... I have lost it over a musician... he has killed me, and it feels good. It is making sense of it that destroys me. It is a language that I do not understand but that is shouted at me everyday.

My eyes fog up as these ghosts from the past continue to ask me questions about questions about bullshit about answers about shit. I don't know anything anymore. My vision fogs as I stop listening. What they are saying is no longer making sense, and all I am doing is making eye contact with them and nodding, nodding, nodding, occationally saying, "yes... yes... absolutely..." But they are drifting further and further away, as the music inside grows like waves on a black ocean, crashing and devouring my ability to relate.

A bitch. I can't believe the statement. What does it even mean? The music grows, I sail on the dark waves, out of the conversation and into the caverns of my brain, my empty brain, my death, and it painfully stimulates my taste buds. The red wine. Blood. Love. Candles.

They keep talking to me, recounting stories about their families, their pets, their past vacations, their health, their jobs -- ugh. A bitch. I can't stand it. I sail further away. Whoever I am talking to is saying something about an old computer, an ill grandmother, a new technological advancement he or she or whatever the fuck it is read about in some newspaper somewhere. I sail further. My vision gets cloudier. I am tired, can't focus. A bitch. The music is contributing to the creation of a bitch.

I lose interest completely and burp in the middle of this person talking about his recent breakup and the death of his dog. My bad. Grudgingly, and with enjoyment, I spit my gum into my empty wine glass and roll my eyes, standing up to depart.

"I must abscond," I say. I said that. And that is that. That is me sticking it to the man, the one playing his hypnotizing music inside, evoking images of Summertimes in the woods and laughter and flowers, cold beer and warm red wine, fires and mosquito repellent, neckties and dreams, and it rattles my heart until it shudders, and rots my brain with its lifeboats cast, sailing further and further into the dark.