Winter in Dreams pt.2

Samuel spends the next moment facing the mirror, his eyes growing hard as they stare back into themselves. What is within that pinprick black of the iris? If he looks closely enough, he can see himself reflected and Samuel supposes that if he could look further he would see reflections of reflections, an infinity of self that shines back from that pure black, the overriding constancy of nothing. Samuel's eyes travel over the terrain of his face and note the lack of stubble, the errant hair. He wets his face with a rush of warm water and cleanses it, exfoliating with a non-alcohol based exfoliating cream. He then rinses off the cream, feeling the warm tingle of his opened pores as they react to the stinging morning air, and soaps his face using a bar of soap from Sabon...it is deep sea mud and when Samuel closes his eyes to avoid getting soap in them, he can see the pale constructed memory of the desert, of Jerusalem with bone white buildings that stick up from the sand like fingers in clay. Finally, Samuel applies a light moisturizer - SPF 15 in order to protect his skin from the intensely harmful light of the sun. He looks at himself in the mirror once more and satisfaction becomes evident in the set of his brow, the slight widening of his eyes...the next step is clothing.

The closet in his bedroom is small but relative to the size of the total room it is rather large. It has two sliding doors, one behind the other, and Samuel has organized his clothing such that his work wear is on the right side and everything else is on the left side. Samuel understands the importance of work clothes - they are the armored protection that a manager uses to deflect concern from his subordinates. A suit might be the most important piece of clothing ever invented by man. Samuel is certain that suits were invented by men. He does not believe in the efficacy of female innovation. This is not something he would repeat out loud to anyone in a work situation; the consequences for being unequitable as a manager are dire and he has no inclination to risk his position for a single snide comment to an employee or, God forbid, to a higher up. Samuel shudders from the thought, or perhaps from the cold air that prompts him to make a sartorial choice quickly.

Samuel has several suits but each one is cut in the same severe fashion. There are three summer suits and two winter suits - the summer suits include one suit from white linen for informal gatherings. This particular white suit is from Joseph Abboud and has typically American styling, the barely noticeable darts, the offhand stitching...the suit is perfect for company functions along the water or held during the weekend someplace. The cut implies subservience to the higher managers, yet the material and obvious casual luxury shows that Samuel is important enough to be remembered and ready for advancement. This is the philosophy that he considered when purchasing this suit and it took him several hours of diligent comparison to find what he wanted; to complement his look Samuel owns a braided leather belt in a very light brown with a gold buckle whose prick slots neatly between any of the leather weaves, and a pair of white leather shoes, boat shoes to be exact, that were purchased from a discount shoe warehouse. Samuel believes in the appearance of wealth but understands the difficulty of having it. His position is as a middle manager in a financial firm, yet he is determined to display himself as a much higher aspirant.

-Rich

I can see where we were falling

Winter in Dreams pt.1

Samuel's eyes opened with the immediate recognition that his alarm clock had not yet gone off. His clock, purchased at the sharper image on sale during some holiday season, contained within its plastic guts a small projector that displayed the current time on whatever surface Samuel pointed it towards. His eyes adjusted in the early morning light and he saw that he had ten more minutes before he knew he must be out of his bed. Some men will take that time and add a few more minutes, discarding the morning actions that they perceive to be unneccesary at times, but Samuel diligently peeled his covers back at exactly 7:00 in the morning. It did not matter if the day was cold or hot - whether in the summer or winter, he woke and peeled the covers back, sliding his feet into slippers placed perfectly perpendicular to his bed the night before on the hardwood floor. Today he had woken up a bit early, and, feeling no desire to remain within the sheets, he pulled the covers away and stepped into his slippers. The cold shock of the floor was only slightly numbed by the fabric of his soles, and Samuel shuffled his feet a bit as he turned the alarm off on his clock. No need for it now, he was already awake.

Samuel's morning routine was a simple one - his father had always made it clear that simplicity was the mark of an organized mind. Samuel walks into the bathroom and turns on the light. His eyes peer at themselves in the sudden orange glow of the dim watt bulbs...he did not change his bulbs to fluorescent lighting because the color irritated his eyes and the article in Consumer Reports said that fluorescent bulbs were not completely cost efficient except over extended periods of time. His right hand pulled a tube of toothpaste out from the cup he used to rinse his mouth. The tube of toothpaste was rolled up from the bottom, using the crimped bottome edge of the tube as the center. He spread the toothpaste on the tip of his brush and then closed and placed the tube on the sink edge. Samuel spread the toothpaste with his finger over the bristles of the brush and began to brush with the kind of technique shown to him by a family dentist some time in his youth. Up, down, thirty times on each side of each jaw. Thirty times up, thirty down, right, left, front, back, top, bottom. Thirty times sixteen. Samuel did the math in his head, seeing the teeth being brushed as he did so. Four hundred and eighty. He spit into the sink, ran the water a little, and rinsed his mouth out. The toothpaste went back into the cup with the toothbrush, and Samuel continued with his daily ablutions.

-Rich
one of the great single tamed oh yeah

Pree tension.

I was browsing through the latest NYLON magazine, mostly because I was waiting for someone and it happened to be on her table. The thing that I noticed immediately(besides the fact that NYLON is directed at girls who can only afford to wear shit fashion that makes them look like every other goddamn girl who lives and breathes the Olsen Twins for some reason) was the bald appropriation of J.D. Salinger's words. There were two sections called, "To Sir, with love" and "In Love and Squalor". When did this happen? It wasn't so terrible to note - it was a strange moment to see references that clearly were not going to be picked up by the majority of people that read NYLON. I'm not really saying anything terrible about the magazine, just the people that read it, which is fairly deserved.

However, this morning I was perusing the new Atlantic online, reading comments about Obama's newest speech(and feeling bemused about Britney being on the cover, especially given comments from the editors of THE ECONOMIST that were certainly relevant) when I saw another pseudo-intellectual reference. In this case, "Good Lieutenant" is clearly a reference to the harshly modern film "Bad Lieutenant" starring Harvey Keitel. I am omitting the glaringly obvious reference to pop culture with "The Clinton Supremacy", because it is pop culture...and who really cares about pop culture?

It does however make me wonder about what we are doing with our intellectualism. It feels like being educated is now just another way to feel "better" than other people - it brings about the starkly competitive nature of every aspect of our lives. How can we, as a people, hope to do more, do better for everyone when the only satisfaction we draw from any action is an intensely personal one? Being educated means that you have more experience to draw upon, and yet that simple fact has become, instead of a motivator to help others learn, a fetish. The best example being any sort of "snob" - music snobs, wine snobs, etc. I would go on but my point is made, I think.

P.S. The NYLON references are all contained within the Salinger short story, "To Esme, with love and squalor". I recommend the read, if you are curious to see just how much the story is NOT related to new spring fashion for men and women in the middle class income bracket.

-Rich
I can't wait to see you again

Inversion.

In the air a shape hung under the moon. An inverted heart, the passage of jets or passenger planes. The ground crunched underneath Mikel's boots and he huffed small clouds in front of his face, still warm after passing through the scarf wrapped tightly around his mouth. Mikel's pace was brisk; his feet barely seemed to do more than touch the ground for a moment before he was off again, his hands tucked under the opposite arm, pressed firmly against his sides. He looked as one does when laughter siezes the entire body, shaking the ribs clean and pushing the air out of one's chest.

Mikel stopped and looked up at the moon for a moment. The air was crisply dry(as it often is in that area after a snowfall) and his eyes watered as he stared at the only companion he saw in the night. The road was empty of people, bereft of any animal sound. The cold and the snow had done much to send living things towards comfort, towards the familiarity of sleep and the zen adage of patience. Patience! Time will make the snow pass and melt, a sinking sugar rush for the earth below. Grass will sprout like soldiers from the dragon's teeth, and the air will feel thick with warmth, with diluted laughter that still echoes in the inner ear. In time the moon will set and all that is left behind is the memory of it's glow against the forceful attentions of the night, of the sun, of the girls and boys in our hearts.

Mikel's feet started to move again in quickened rhythm. One two, one two. The snowy ground cracked and sprang the sounds of gunshots across the city. He stepped for a moment between two lampposts along the sidewalk, and, in the inky perfect darkness of the abscence of light, he disappeared.

-Rich
this suicide

Avast. Daily writing begin anew.

I am going to attempt to do my daily blog again - work has been intense lately, but if I can't take a few minutes out of the day to write, then why do I write at all?

***********************

When he opened his eyes, the fan above him seemed to quiver with anticipation. He examined it in the low light of morning. Each fan blade had been moulded to look like a ceramic palm leaf. The fan was meant to evoke the feeling of tropical relaxation - it failed miserably, instead evoking images of slaves chained by the foot to a throne, fanning a man or woman with the devotion of the damned. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the image blend into the shifting patterns of shapes and colors that danced across his vision.

As a child, he had noticed the drifting spots while falling asleep one afternoon, the setting sun caressing his gently rising and falling chest with deft fingertips. His eyes had closed gradually, unable to focus on anything, his sight already moving inwards, when he saw a fringed spot jump across his sight - seemingly from one eye to the next. It frightened him - perhaps this was an illness, perhaps he was seeing bacteria or germs, or something worse. Small feet in wool socks made a soft thumping sound, a body rolling over onto teak paneling, as he ran to his father, tears beginning at the corners of his eyes.

His father was sitting in the study, as he always was after a certain hour of the day. The study was a small room enclosed by two wooden doors whose faces were glass - always cool to the touch, even in summertime. The child's mother hated cleaning fingerprints off of each glass panel but the child could not resist placing his hands on them to push the doors open. There was something magical about the feel of cool glass against his skin - even in the dead heat of summer, where laughter runs liquid, the glass remained cool against his sweating palms. He noticed that sensation now as he pushed open one of the doors to enter the study and seek guidance from his father, unbuttoned shirt sleeves the mark of leisure and perhaps success.

-Rich

we all forget sometimes