Monday, July 26, 2010

Egg atop a Desert Savant.

Confessions of a Lego Prodigy.

CHAPTER I: A photograph in a tin.

I moved large scoops of dirt to the side. When I got deeper I would just strike at the dirt with the tiny garden shovel, then use both of my hands to remove large portions to the side of the hole. And when the hole was deep enough I placed inside it the tin box that had been sitting off to my side. It was composed of chipped red and silver paint, ordained with what once may have been flowery mistletoe decorations along the side. Perhaps it had once proudly contained an assortment of popcorn or nuts. Now it would serve as a tomb for a rag tag assortment of objects.

I was preparing to end its miserable life as a Christmas tin; and begin its new life as a time capsule.

Before I could pull the dirt over the box and let it rest I needed to say my final goodbyes to the contents within. I popped the lid and dumped out its belongings. I arranged each item in a semicircle, orbiting the hole.

The tin sat at 12:00 directly in front of me.

To its right at 1:00 sat the last remaining piece of my grandest Lego creation of all time; the nose piece of the Velvet Kobiyashi. Hands down my masterpiece. The facial details inscribed with erasable marker still held true. It brought pain to my heart to even lay eyes upon it.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Patty Suture Sweets

About Last Night...

You are him. Whether or not you think you are, from this point on…you are him.

And you are not alone. There is a woman with you.

“It’s a strange night out there,” she says to you. Her long fingers run through your hair. A gentle summer breeze flickers the candles on the table. Despite her calm fa├žade you know underneath she is a ball of anxiety. She has no patience for the pre-game. She has an agenda, a laundry list of things to accomplish, and you’re just another item to be crossed off.

Tenderness gives way to frustration as her impatience with you grows. She casts off her dress in a motion so elegant and efficient it feels rehearsed. You feel her wet tongue lick the length of that valley that runs up your spine and stops at your C4, and with that lick she senses the entrance.

You jerk away when she touches you there. Not violently like a hornet landing on your elbow, it’s a mild reaction, like a doctor tapping your knee to test Patellar reflex

It’s subconscious, but she thinks it cowardly. To her this is simply one more indicator that chivalry is dead. That we live in an age of overly sensitive men, and liberated, apathetic, woman who scorn the existence of their fatherless sons.