Saturday, August 19, 2006

Word of the Day


One entry found for estrange.
Main Entry: es·trange
Pronunciation: i-'strAnj
Function: transitive verb
Inflected Form(s): es·tranged; es·trang·ing
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French estrangir, estranger, from Medieval Latin extraneare, from Latin extraneus strange -- more at STRANGE
1 : to remove from customary environment or associations
2 : to arouse especially mutual enmity or indifference in where there had formerly been love, affection, or friendliness : ALIENATE
- es·trange·ment /-m&nt/ noun
- es·trang·er noun
synonyms ESTRANGE, ALIENATE, DISAFFECT mean to cause one to break a bond of affection or loyalty. ESTRANGE implies the development of indifference or hostility with consequent separation or divorcement . ALIENATE may or may not suggest separation but always implies loss of affection or interest . DISAFFECT refers especially to those from whom loyalty is expected and stresses the effects (as rebellion or discontent) of alienation without actual separation .

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Beautiful, Shallow, & Fleeting

We stand eating
on the ground we
walk. Consuming the
very time we
are. We have no
room for God, but
we've had our fill
of honesty.

Web MD

Crump: You’re not schizophrenic; you’re a hypochondriac.

Mayhan: What’s that supposed to mean?

Crump: It means you’re not really sick; you’re just imagining it.

Mayhan: Ha, don’t you think that’s proof that I really am crazy? How in your right mind can you tell someone that imagines they’re going crazy that they're sane? I mean that’s obviously delusional.

Crump: You’re not delusional.

Mayhan: You just said I was delusional…that I was imagining I’m schizophrenic.

Crump: Look, you’re delusional about being delusional, but you’re not delusional.

Mayhan: What the fuck does that mean? Maybe you’re insane too. Did I mention that rambling, incoherent speech is a symptom? That’d be sweet--we can be crazy together.

Crump: Oh god, just shut up.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Factotum in Fall

I woke up at 3 in the afternoon. My screenplay had been keeping me up late. Act three felt flat. Everything seemed sparse and random. The scenes were so extended that the narrative seemed lost. I wasn’t sure how to bring it all together.

Of main concern was my lead character’s suicide. I needed to find a trigger. His childhood was rough. His teenager years were chaotic, but nothing so bad that it seemed to warrant suicide. I needed something particularly fucked up that would make people believe—and more so to understand—his suicide. I was at a lost. It had been keeping me awake at nights. I noticed that time goes much slower when the sun is down. 10 p.m. to 5 a.m. can easily feel like a week. Conversely, 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. flashes in a blink. However long time feels at night, it’s also emptier. That one night may feel like a week, but it feels like a week in a jail cell. That feeling helped. It’s how my script felt too. Maybe in this sprawling landscape of time I could find something in it that would help me see what’s needed to finish my story.

It wasn’t working, but I had finally gotten a decent idea that allowed me to sneak some sleep in. After rising off my couch, I went in my room and plopped down at the desk. The computer screen stared me down. It was blank. I was blank. I decided to leave.

I called my friend Timothy from school. He was a tall, lanky fellow writer with a messy plume of hair that a dean had suggested I talked too. Before being dean she ran the honors writing program. She felt his and my mind somehow meshed.

This was actually the first time I called to speak to him outside of campus. The conversation was stuttered. Timothy was, “socially awkward,” as he put it. Yet, his patient searching for words and rigid energy were somehow charming. And if you were to look into my eyes you were more likely to see a distant cosmos than you were anything that resembled a personality. Our conversation had as much energy as drying cement. After, a few pauses and moments of confusion we agreed to meet up at a coffee house in the pseudo-avant-garde artist radical district of the city.

I took the train. Most of the time flashes of fear struck me in the gut when I leave my apartment. A lot of the times I hold my keys in my pocket like a weapon in case some tries to mug me. Then it slowly dawns on me that I’m paranoid and I forget about it.

People are simulacrums of what I read in books or see on television; I’ve realized that I spend so much time absorbed into myself that I’ve created a world that doesn’t truly exist.

It’s wandering around the city that always awakens me. People on the street surprise me. The way people act, the places that are dangerous, the things that are beautiful, people’s ideas, their insecurities, their courtesies are all distorted on my map. It is as if I have a felt tip marker that I am using to trace a picture from memory on a sheet of clear cellophane. Then when I place it on top of the real picture the lines and shapes don’t match up. My eyes too—the clear cellophane gel of my eyes imbued by the projections of my mind look out onto the world and see the distortions the difference in line. Today wasn’t so bad. The train ride was peaceful. My thoughts had eaten up most of the time it took to get there. When I arrived I scuttled away from the station. Paranoid or not there are some shady people lurching around that place.

Before heading in to the coffee house, I opted for a bookstore a few doors down. It was a pleasant independent place with a lot of used books. They even have a section for counter-culture. I breezed through its shelves. Charles Bukowski. Lots of him. I imagined that this had to be just about everything he had ever written. Realizing, I had never read anything he had written I decided it was time to start. His reputation had always enticed my interest. Dark, brutal, and morose was right up my library isle.

I chose a novel—Factotum. It seemed appropriate to my cause. With my purchase in hand I headed back to the bookstore. Timothy had already shown up. He was sitting penitently at a sidewalk table. If it wasn’t for his threadbare sweaters and second-hand pants scribbled with marker he’d look like conservative librarian—the black rimmed glasses and bowtie type. He was prim, but not stern. His presence on that chair reminded me of an origami crane—tautly defined, but easily crushed.

We spoke briefly. He knew the area more. A Thai café had opened up recently. It appealed to his vegan diet. Up the road a few block we marched off towards it. Almost the entire building was a window. It was like going inside a display case. Everything was sanitized. Perfect and crisp. It felt like a display case. The deco was very posh. The easy listening music in the speakers squashed most of my appetite.

Our waiter was dainty. He had a slim build, topped with delicate Asian features and feminine cheek bones that pointed to his small obsidian eyes. His hair was flat and shiny. I always wondered what would have happened if Charlie Chaplin and a porcelain doll had had a child. Again, the conversation did not come easy. It picked up speed like a bowling ball rolling uphill—looks like it might go somewhere but after a brief struggle comes down twice as fast.

“What’d you buy?”

“Bukowski’s book Factotum.”

Timothy picked the book up. “I haven’t read this one. Post Office was good.” He scrutinized the cover for a few moments before flipping to a random page.

“I sat around in the bus station for a while but the people depressed me,” he read aloud. Timothy broke into a contained laughter. “That’s awesome.” That was perfect I thought. I know the feeling first hand from my excursions on buses around the country. But more than that—he meant life. This sojourn is one nasty smelly bus stop. It’s a boring stop between nothing and nowhere. And the people are depressing.

The food arrived. My beef steak strips were buried in a mess of vegetation. I felt like crocodile hunting in marsh. Adorning the plate was a large silver spoon. The purpose for its existence escaped me. I set it aside.

“I actually went in looking to buy The Tunnel.”

“William Gass has amazing prose. The way he describes the inconsequential elements of scenery is amazing.”

“Yeah, Gass was kinda’ fucked up.”

“Maybe that’s why he doesn’t use plots.”

I chuckled. “Possibly, I enjoy that sort of linguistic tapestry. It’s like eating cake icing with my eyes.”


“That’s my problem with the script right now. It started out with a thread, but now it’s extended in so many directions. The whole damn thing is disjointed.”

“I know what you mean. I find myself there often.”

“Do you have any new projects?”

“Just some short, short stories, not like short-short, but short.”


“Well not flash fiction, but nothing substantial, I don’t know I can’t talk too much about something until it’s finished.”

“How come?”

“I feel as if I can’t write it once I’ve said it. I did it—it’s gone—it’s lost some vital essence so there’s no point in writing it.”

“That makes sense, but hold on I need another soda.”

“Oh they don’t have refills here.”


“Yeah no refills on soda.”

“What in the fucking middle ages is that about?”

“The whole area has changed. They’re catering to a more upscale crowd. Watch the streets you’ll see a tie every ten feet as compared to every ten months back in the day.”

“Good god, does everything and everywhere have to have a pleasant shopping potential for these fucks.”

“The other day I tried crossing the street in slow traffic. Some guy rolled down his window and started calling me a faggot. Nice car. Nice suit. That would have never happened five years ago.”

“I hate that one place up the street. Pineapple Mountain—the douche bags make you order French fries as a side dish when you get a hamburger. That’s immoral.”

“It’d be like a Thai place charging you for your rice.”

“What this rice costs money.”

“No, I was joking by analogy.”


“You done?”


“Me too.”

We paid the check. There was no real plan. He had to meet a girl at seven, which left three hours. Nothing else had been discussed. We simply walked around until he saw someone go into the coffee shop where we met.

“I have to talk to him,” he informed me. We went inside. The guy he talked to was tall and lanky like him. He too had a fig of scruffy hair on top. While the chatted I ordered an iced cinnamon coffee. I heard stuttering. This guy talked just as forced as Timothy. It was like watching a mirror have a conversation. They were done talking before my coffee arrived. We were back on the sidewalk heading towards the used record store.

Some young artistic types had flocked on the ledge of a parking garage’s roof. Their noses were scarred with fresh paper cuts having just left the delusional melodies of a Kerouac novel. “Hey down there,” they screamed, “come on up.” I looked up, slightly blinded by the bleeding colors amuck in the sky. The sunset tickled their silhouettes. My feet had already decided for me stepping away in the opposite direction.

Timothy decided otherwise. He yanked me aside. “I’m going to go take a closer look. Don’t make any noise and give me away. I want to make sure they’re cool enough before I allow them my presence.” He was a smart-ass more than he was pretentious, but the line was blurred. Even so, his gentle demeanor diffused what ego he did have. I paused in the stairwell. Part of me has always been afraid of jumping into a social setting with any degree of spontaneity. People scared me—another result of the delusions stemming from my solitude. I always imagine them ridiculing me for trying to join their world. Deep down it was the isolation itself projecting fears into my mind so that it could continue to live.

Part of me just hated people. They are disappointing. During those footsteps that carry you closer to a new person, one’s mind floods with adventure. This might be my future wife. This is that guy who will join me for a motorcycle adventure that begins and ends in Prague. Inevitably they turn out to be some idiot waiting around for the same mythic person to come into their life. “Why do we always look for others to save us,” I thought. Maybe my character was doomed for the same reason.

While Timothy ran his reconnaissance mission I rested against the banister. The gray paint was chipping off the rail. It reminded me of my dandruff. Sooner or later everything flakes off and dies. I took a big gasping suck of my coffee. A cool, cinnamon river careened down my throat. “Such a simple pleasure,” I mused, “Perhaps I’m not complicated at all. The nuances of Berkeley’s metaphysics have never brought me delight. Whenever I do understand something, whether him or another member of the old dead man dais it feels more like completing a marathon—fulfilling but utterly pointless.”

Drinking coffee, in all its splendid forms, was more akin to listening to a song. It just felt damn good.

It seemed like a good time to pull out the Bukowski. I wondered if I’d have the same luck as Timothy did turning to a random quote. Fate took over. “For each Joan of Arc there is a Hitler perched at the other end of the teeter-totter,” enough to make me chuckle, but not so full of the revelation I felt from Timothy’s find. I gave it another shot. “How’d you like a blow job?” Yes. But, I didn’t need Bukowski to tell me that.

I gave it another flip. “People don’t need love. What they need is success in one form or another. It can be love but it needn’t be.” Finally I found one. So much for fate. Though, how I arrived at it wasn’t important. I had arrived at it. That sentence cut through the thickets of Hallmark garbage and right down to a brutal truth about this world—about people. It’s appeasement we need—not sublimity. Timothy bounced back down the stairs. “Nah, they looked fucking stupid.”

We moved on. Success. I needed to succeed with my screenplay. That would give me my love. Maybe that’s it. Not only did my character never find love. He never found success. “What can trigger him realizing that,” I wondered, “what makes someone realize they are a total failure.”

Store policy dictated that I had to leave my bag at the counter. Timothy wandered off while I waited to check my book with a clerk. The people in the store were a mixture of caricatures and mavericks. There were those who went their own way. These people had their own style. They emitted a vibe. Then there were the shadows. The people tired of being themselves trying to emulate the others. I’m not sure where I was.

Timothy was his own. He had the presence of a black hole. Not in some angst or gothic sense, either. He was not a void of light, but a hub. Everything that came within the reach of his preceptors was pulled into his mind. It was fondled, examined, analyzed, and loved before being spit back out through the filter of his unique dimension just as black holes swallow the light from one side of the universe and shoot it out on the other side—recycling the illumination for a parallel world. That’s him. His subsequent musings were a quaff amalgam of aristocracy and anti-establishment bedlam. It was the new demeanor of elegance in our hybrid world.

I couldn’t decide about myself so I started buying. Whatever looked different or sounded obscure fell prey to my credit card. Perhaps I could find inspiration in a world to which I’ve never traveled. Maybe I could figure out what my character longed for thus seeing what he does have and how that corrodes him from the inside out. In truth I grew tired with the entire project; I wanted to just throw it away and start over. Listlessness overcame me. My eyes dulled. When we left the store I had adopted an air of sedation. Timothy noticed but didn’t say anything except that he wanted to carouse the comic book store.

Graphic novels as they’re often called are not my thing. The art work is incredible, but I never could click with their world. I felt alienated in the pages of their dimension. Perhaps my character felt the world to be a comic book and him an uninterested reader. As Timothy chatted with a clerk about water-color art I plopped onto a couch the store had in a reading area. It gave me the chance to people watch. The window was tinted by the gleam of a neon sign. I felt like I was in an aquarium.

There was an intersection outside the window. People walked up then stopped. They waited. Traffic went. It stopped. It waited. They bounced back and forth as if dancing some mechanical ballet. I fashioned myself standing atop a high rise looking down—seeing it all as beautiful patterns of movement. You go. You stop. Life moves in irregular pulses. It’s never static. I decided to truly kill my character. The project had run out of energy.

It felt like time to go home. Timothy walked with me back to the train. Sunset had fallen like a dying fire leaving only piles of soot across the entire sky.

“I’m killing the project,” I said.


“I’ve barely slept all week. I can’t find a trigger. I give up. There’s no justifiable reason why he’d kill himself—nothing to explain it.”

“Maybe that’s why he kills himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s no meaning in anything. It’s just a bunch of unexplainable events—his life included. Maybe he just says fuck it simply to say fuck it.”

I felt undressed. We said our goodbyes and I boarded the train. Sitting in my chair I noticed that the night was heavy. I couldn’t see anything except blackness outside the window. It was as if they were painted. The train barreled ahead.

I glanced around at the people sharing this ride home. Some of them looked beaten. They were exhausted after a day of work at some temporary, shit job. Nobody wanted to be where they were all day, but they had no choice. Poor bastards were too tired to even enjoy the fact they were going home. Myself included.

I finished the screenplay that night. In the end my problem wasn’t finding a trigger for my character’s suicide; it was figuring out what sparked his salvation. The one was a true fiction—a myth. There is no one, divine saving moment. It bounces around. Sometimes you’re happy. Sometimes you’re not. There is no total failure. People always have a few good moments. Sometimes it doesn’t even take a major failure to ruin one’s life or a lot of them. It could just be a simple fuck up that you can’t see beyond for whatever reason. Sometimes people just kill themselves. Period. Sooner or later everything flakes off and dies.


Moonlit city night strolling
I saw a chance with
Two beautiful young women
With copper
Silk thighs
Teased-covered knee-high
Leather boots, but got
Nowhere so I moseyed
To the corner neon bar
Nihilism missing last call
Winded up nowhere
Which I embraced
Chin UP eyes gazing
Soft into midnight nothing
Hands buried in my
Pockets still walking nowhere
When a voice called,
“Hey man I like that!”
Turned to see a
Shopping bag homeless trying
To hitch a ride calling,
“You out here walking like you ain’t got a care in the god damn world—just strolling—not giving a fuck about anything...I like that.”
Paused smiled nodded did I
Wandered into nowhere

My Waking Hours: The Leeches


I couldn't move my leg last night.



A shoulder's POV looks down at two feet frozen at the end of the couch.

My doctor called it sleep paralysis. In the moments before sleep or upon waking an individual can find themselves frozen--unable to speak, move, or cry out.



But, then I wake up.

The golden lights of a ceiling fan reflect in a cup of coffee.

Night comes.




A shoulder's POV looks down at a body bundled under a comforter.

My doctor told me that often times sleep paralysis is accompanied by hallucinations and many experts view the condition as the likely source of people reporting alien abductions, alternative realities, and imaginary creatures.

A candle near the bed flickers.



However, today it invaded my waking hours.

A hand lays flat on a glass table next to a black coffee mug.

My hand would not move. It just sat there. Wouldn't Listen. Blackness.




A shoulder's POV looks down at a body fully dressed, laying on its side.

The condition also causes the presence. That is people report feeling something in the room, an intruder, and along with them sensations of dread and terror. Sometimes the presence will attack--strangling the person or crushing their chest and at times leading to an out-of-body experience...
But they haven't done that yet.

Two men, late twenties, stern-looking and in suits stand in the corner of the room.



The next thing I remember is my breath.

POV looking down sees its own breath in the morning air.

It was cold. I felt beside myself.

The two men in black suites appear across the street.

Then they too invaded my waking hours. Perhaps I didn't sleep well and I was nodding out. That could explain this dizzy feeling I if floating.

POV turns to the sky, spins, and falls. Sidewalk.



I blinked. I felt frozen.

POV looks down at feet scrawled on the couch.

The presence had returned.

Both men walk into the room.

I wanted to scream. Nothing came out.

One of the men reaches into his jacket for something.

I blinked.



The whirling blades of a ceiling fan reflect in a cup of coffee.

Things changed my hand moved without permission.

A hand darts to grab something and knocks the coffee over.

I stood for a towel. They were in the mirror.

Over the shoulder of a man, in a nearby mirror, stand the two men in a suit. As the man goes into the kitchen for a towel we see a pair of feet sticking out from underneath the table.

I blink.




A train whizzes by. When it passes the two men in suits are standing in a field on the other side.

Again I blinked.



A pair of hands are resting upon a pew clasped in prayer.

I wake up.

POV looks down at its knees.

Why am I here? I don't believe. Maybe, it will help rid the presence.

A long shot of the chapel sees a single figure deep in prayer--alone.

Why do I bow before this shrine? My legs are beyond control.

A shrine.


They move and freeze as they see fit.



I blink.

POV looks down at two bodies cuddled in bed.

I awake. There is a stranger. But it feels good. I can't remember the last time I held someone.

The two men walk in.

I wanted to run.

They approach the bed.

I felt choked.

A pair of hands strangle the POV.

Helpless, I forgot the girl. Blinked.





POV looks down to see its breath.

Again, I felt lost, dizzy. I looked down and saw nothing.

POV looks down. There is breath, but no feet.

Where were my legs? Was I dreaming.

POV spins panicked.

I use to dream, or say have a nightmare that I'd be stuck in place while desperately trying to run from something. Was I awake.

Running in form the distance are the two men in suits.

Run I told myself.

Nothing moves.


The two men get closer.

I must be dreaming if I'm stuck.

Nothing moves.

I can only watch.

POV darts around.

Again, I blinked.


And again, I'm frozen.



The auditorium is fashioned like a small movie theater. On the screen is television snow. One man sits alone in the dim, flickering light.

Where was I?

The back doors swing open. Light pours in and the two men in suits follow.

I could not feel my body.

The men approach.

Scream I told myself.


Nothing would resonate.

The men are standing directly in the POV. Behind them the static ripples on screen.

Fear engulfed me. I froze. I blinked. Blackness.




POV looks down at body, legs bare, slightly drawn one on top of the other.

Was it over?

The two men walked in.

Lord help me I thought.

They paused.

Then they spoke.

V.O. 2
Gabriel, it is time to go.

My name, how long since I've heard it.

One of the men reaches into his jacket and removes a long black cloth.

V.O. 2
We can let no one linger.

I wanted to wake. But, my body was dead still. Frozen.

V.O. 2
It's okay. There are many like you.

Both men are still.

His lips did not move.

V.O. 2
It's hard to let go when one perishes. Many souls refuse to come back. They leech onto bodies and convince themselves it is their own.

I tried to blink. I did not awake.

V.O. 2
Our job is to bring you home. You've perished Gabriel. That is not your body in this bed.

POV pulls out to reveal a man sitting on the side of a bed next to the man asleep.

V.O. 2
It's time.

Gabriel buries his head into his knees and sobs.

The man with the cloth walks over and drapes it upon his shoulder. He gently holds his shoulder and helps him up.

The other man turns his back to them and faces the door.

V.O. 2
We can let no one linger. The soul leeches must be gathered...I'm sorry.

Gabriel, and his guide exit the room first. The other suited man walks to the desk and extinguishes the candle.


I blink. Frozen. Blackness. Forever.

The end.