The Uninteresting Self
It's one in the morning as I spread the final touches over thick slices of bread. I am too cheap to own a toaster. And I wonder why I can't sleep. They are caked with butter. The thinly sprinkled sugar became a tablespoon over each slice, followed by cinnamon. The bread is fresh from the bag and folded and I am careful not to spill. I place it in my mouth and try to remember a time when my mother made these at breakfast. I am greatly disappointed. That young mouth had taste buds. It wasn’t desecrated by bottles of booze and tobacco. I use the rest of the loaf for old faithful, my double-decker-peanut-butter-and-jelly. Making food is no longer cathartic. It has lost its magic.
I write so much that the voices of characters speak to me in drawn out conversations. Each echoes in my head and fills the vast emptiness of the space in which I reside. They seem relevant to something I want to say, except I know only silence. The women of my past come to say hello or rather to tell me “piss off.” The benefits to living alone are the many visitors that come by unannounced. The voices arrive and leave with no regard for that precious “time” they often spoke. I say what I wish to them and occasionally remember vivid moments, what they wore, what they said; I even know their thoughts now. Then they just drift away like fading spirits, pockets of space—un-aged—and precisely how I recall them.
That leads to the scary part. Life, or the reality of that Life outside, where I must interact with people I do not know so intimately. It became a dream not too far back. Now, in the empty coffers of this two-bedroom apartment I seduce a hostess from my first job. I can’t remember her name, but I clearly see the blinding red oriental dress she wore when she greeted customers and that gorgeous dark, dark brown hair. I seduce her. I am smooth and aggressive. Back then, emblazed by cowardice, I was more of a decorative appliance—someone loud in quiet places and a jester conjuring white delicate smiles.
I like to think about women. I am addicted to their walk. “How [their] hips make circles within circles,” Neruda said, or something to that effect. I love the way their decisions occur, basing conclusions on connections, emotions, and heart. It is warmer, more inviting than logic. And when you are sincere, the flickering in a woman’s eyes, the unwavering slice of time penetrates exposition, like the last time I told a woman I loved her.
Rating the Exercise
So what do you think?See results without voting
- The Unitneresting Self 2
It is such a welcomed relief. Gently I place the glass on the counter and fill it with the contents of bourbon. I laugh to myself in that not so funny tone that there is not enough present to do the job. I...
- Poetical Myth
Agd and listless! Time does not live here anymore! The broken, battered, balding plains covered in dead washed free by inequality, or the inequality of equal creations in their births. Where is...
- The Stories Alden Gardner
I. The sun broke threw the grey afternoon illuminating the high-pitched screams of children playing and the bareness of the trees and the yellows and reds of dead leaves decorating a small suburban block....
- Stories Alden Gardner Part 3
Looks as if Im gonna smell again today. Jesus, you'd think I could be on time for a six-thirty shift. Alden reached to the floor and grabbed a T-shirt and jeans. After quickly checking his hair and...
- The Stories Alden Gardner (part 2)
His heartbeat echoed in his head. Alden drank gin, over ice and no mixers, so his eye lids hung partially open. There was no pain, only the lethargic reality of a dehydrated brain. His body was thin and his...
Comments 8 comments
- Look me up on Facebook
Facebook is a social utility that connects people with friends and others who work, study and live around them. People use Facebook to keep up with friends, upload an unlimited number of photos, post links and videos, and learn more about the people
- Tyson Walker - Google Profile
Tyson Walker - service industry and writer
More by this Author
This is a critical look at one of my favorite books of all time. Even though I have a great love for Heinlein's message, I found some glaring issues in regard to gender.