They still tell me the same thing. After 25 years, (because let’s accept it, I was not a psycho at age 5) they still tell me the same thing, over and over again. And I never listen, and when it happens, I regret it for some minutes, and then I regret the regret. My mom always told me “Don’t invite strange people home” and whenever I saw someone that interested me I said, “Would you like to come with me, my house’s over there?” My mom would angrily pull me by the shirt and scolded me. Not before I did it again, two or three blocks later. Things go great for all your infancy, but then puberty makes things complicated. Please don’t ask what happens when you’re thirty. I don’t blame my mother, no. But I must find someone to blame. Because each day I wake up with a stranger, all that I can think is “who am I supposed to blame” we’re always blaming you see. That’s about it, what we do and what we don’t accept we did, and what we did, how to justify it. Something like that. Yes….
Anna Dymna (like the actress, but not her…)
[Mrs. K i t e] you'll probably hear more about dymna... and this might be developed...
He must have probably just picking up some dry cleaning while taking food to his home, all that in a very eloquent way of dressing. But that is not a good story, or at least not at 9 p.m. as I sit in the park. Half an hour ago there was a man crossing the park to get to Greenspray st., he was holding a black suit in one hand and in the other he had a black bag with what appeared to be a liquid content; and of course, the weirdo part, he was wearing tennis shoes, socks up to his shin, phosphorescent green shorts and a very old San Francisco sweatshirt.
Again, perhaps he was just taking some sushi and the dry cleaning back home, while wearing cloths many people wouldn't be caught dead wearing. But again, that was not my story, because by the way it seemed to be he was an ex-convict. He had been in jail for ten years, he was caught for possession of illicit substances, he was not really a junky, he was with the wrong crowd. So after her mother hired a just-graduated-from-online-college lawyer the case was reopened. That night the judge was very tired, and felt guilty, he had cheated on his wife, so he just went through the papers very quickly and declared him innocent the next morning.
Now Joe, the ex-convict was looking for a job and someone, perhaps his childhood friend borrowed him a suit for the interview. He was taking home a bag of Chinese, while wearing the only cloths he had before being arrested in the eighties. So Joe the ex-convict was walking through the park with a suit and a bag of unknown fluids. Or was he Herbert the serial killer?
Yes, he was, probably. He was raised in Kansas with his abusive step-father and a very distant mother, and then when he could he moved to San Francisco, something about the liberal land called him. Later, when he was living in a tiny room near the lower part of San Francisco he had a roommate who had escaped from his rich life in Philadelphia, he hated there. The point is that his roommate was obnoxious, simply not Herbert's cup of tea. So one day he simply sticked a knife trough his eyes, then he went for the throat. After watching his roommate die in his funeral cloths he had some sort of outbreak, he then became a serial killer, only killing men in their twenties, wearing suits.
Due to the fact that he had lost his job and crime investigations began to raise in his neighborhood he took off. So he ended up in Philadelphia, abducting young men, strapping them and then putting then a black suit. And he was just that shameless as to buy in the butchery a liter of blood (it turned him on) and rent a black suit. The rest of his case is quiet obvious. But, something about Herbert didn't add up, the suit he had just rented wasn't a funerary one.
Maybe he was a cheap lawyer, or perhaps an accountant, yes Mike the accountant. He had just got a new job; he was escaping from a life of boredom. He had moved from Connecticut to live his dream of traveling the country in a motorcycle. But he never learned to actually ride a motorcycle, or ever went as far to west as Missouri. Instead he stayed up in Philadelphia, where he started a job as a SPA masseur; he had taken a course the previous winter. In said job he met Monica, a rich woman who was married to a cheating husband, and was devastated by her son's dead. Mike only knew all these because of the intense sessions of massage she booked for hours, in which not once she was massaged.
So after a while things got complicated with Monica and her husband found out, and Mike had to move away from all that, word was that her husband was a corrupt judge who had several criminal's service a phone call away. So Mike quit his job as a masseur and went back to the only thing he knew how to do. But no one was calling back, so he moved to a cheaper place in town, where he was burglared. So he ended up with nothing. Six days later a Telemarketing corporation called. So he was renting a suit for his first day back at the job he had escaped from. Things hadn't turned out the way he wanted.
Mike may seem a more elaborate story, but no one without a job can buy so much food, or blood, whatever that bad carried. So instead he was a heart broken actor. Robert had lived in San Francisco his entire life, where he had tried a job as an actor after years and years of studying theater. But acting wasn't really what he wanted, he was just good at it, deep down, that city only meant a deep emotion of sorrow and loneliness, but he was a good actor, so he seemed happy. Then he got a theater job, in his job he met a group of friends who became his regular crowd, very nice people, all of them. One of those nice people was a boy trouble who had moved from the upper east side, who happened to be Robert's type. Robert happened as well to be exactly what the upper east boy's parents hated, so they got together. And after months of knowing each other, Robert was in his way to ask his lover to move in with him, the boy was living in a not-so-pretty area in lower San Francisco. When he arrived with the proposal, he found his boyfriend in the floor, soaked in blood.
After that terrible image Robert's strings were completely broken. An against the advice of everyone he knew, he moved far away, to leave San Francisco behind, to leave everything behind. So after staying with family for a while, he got a job in retail, which went well. And with lots of Oprah, clubbing and self-improvement books he moved on, and he was going on a date in a very fancy place. Unluckily while going to wash his coths, they mixed colors, which left him only with what he wore to sleep. And the bag... well, he was taking the groceries he got while leaving the washing machine ruin his cloths.
Nah, that is way to dramatic... Maybe he was a...
"Mark, what are you doing?" asked Marian, from the far.
"Me? Nothing..." I said, thinking what if that man was George the dentist
"Well, let's go home, I already ran twenty laps. It wouldn’t hurt to run with me for a change" she was now only using that reproach voice sisters know how to do so well.
"Did you see the man with the green pants?" I asked, wondering what had been her theories
"Yea, why?" she sounded so careless
"Do you know him?"
"Dude, he lives a block away"
"So you do know him?"
"I wouldn't go as far as to say I KNOW him, but we've talked a couple of times" she said, looking me weird.
"So he's not a serial-killing-gay-accountant ex-convict?" I asked seriously
"What?! Don't be silly, he lives with his parents, his father is a judge or something" she said, as if it was something trivial
"I see"
You know it really wont surprise me If you're a wreck by the age of fourteen The way you look The way you look is fine
So often colour coordinated your sister she's an Eighties fan But that's alright Have I told you so is mine
You say your life will be the death of you Tell me, do you wash your hair in honey dew? And long for all of them to fall in love with you But they never do
Drinking vodka on the fly Your mother has a watchful eye So look out kid She's onto you this time
Run away to a bed and breakfast Console yourself with the Reader's Digest Ringing the Yellow Pages all alone
You say your life will be the death of you Tell me, do you wash your hair in honey dew? And long for all of them to fall in love with you But they never do No they never do
I'm gonna tell you something good about yourself I'll say it now and I'll never say it about no one else
I'm gonna tell you something good about yourself I'll say it now and I'll never say it about no one else About no one else
[Mrs. K i t e ] well, enjoy... I'm not particularly enjoying this week... or am I?
I need somewhere to hide, I don't need a place, maybe just a time can do. I'm not asking for a cave, a simple sight would be fine. But It's not easy is it? Because it's not only hiding It is also the escaping and the pretending.
I wonder if I'll ever get such a somewhere Maybe in the future I won't need it there I don't know, But as of right now, I do need A column to support a crumbling building indeed.
It could even be a who, a who would make it right, But I have no where, when or who. Not even a might. The how is rather obvious, the why is what worries me. Because it is something sad, and old. So a somewhere is my only plea.
Sometimes you’re just too tired, even for sleeping, even for breathing, even for thinking, even for dreaming. I don’t think I’ll dream today, not at least for the 2:30 hours I have left. Maybe I’ll get some kind of insomniac epiphany and write something very cool. But in this precise moment, I hope not. I’d rather sleep but I can’t. It’s sort of like if I had forgotten how to. But I guess writing is not the best way to induce sleeping. But maybe filling genetic questionnaires is… Waiting for that epiphany... you might read some other 301 posts... will the epiphany ever come? Are we really waiting for the epiphany, or just for the small moments of stories, which in the end will last more than the epiphany...
I'm up to the small moments... 301 OMG Congrat the Penguin for me!
[Mrs. K i t e] it's been so nice sharing this... thnks.!
Sometimes you’re tired Sometimes you’re annoyed Sometimes you’re whatever… But when the two first arise, there’s nothing worse than panicking. Enoguh with the panicking for now... Because sometimes you just know panic won’t do it, it won’t solve it. And you know it can only make it worse. Instead, start doing what you’re supposed to do, and THEN complain and wish and hope they consider it for the next time. We all have our panic attacks, (moi même included in LOTS maybe more than I would like to accept) But right now I’m not in it. And I apologize for past panic-expansion contribution (and for future perhaps) I’ve ranted, I’ve panicked and I’m not part of it right now (well, rant, we all love it and it’s inevitable) So, know, the bothering thing, is I have to “panic” in order to avoid panic situations. What a paradox…
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