Cuts
by
Jon Leigh
Time Becomes Ambiguous — When I find myself wearing American Apparel clothing. I feel itchy in this cotton, like its 1985 and I’m circling the laquered f loors of the roller rink, falling on my ass again and again, walking out with bruised elbows and aching shoulders. My legs resemble my grandmother’s in this skirt. My boyfriend says the length doesn’t f latter my legs. The trend of hiding knees is not one he likes; he doesn’t understand what I’m trying to achieve. I am lengthened by clothing, by stretching, by cotton, by canvas. I am stretched by itching. It is not 1985 yet somehow I find myself wearing pointed ballet shoes and an elastic waistband, like I’m a ten year old bridesmaid. I can’t stop the itch.
I am what you label me Man with briefcase You will say But I am not Crooked collared architect That’s who I am And what you call a briefcase I call an attachÊ A necktie A tie Pants Slacks But it matters not in your eyes I am what you label me Man with briefcase
I fucking hate emoticons. If I've had a bubbling-brown-arse of a day, the last thing I need is someone punctuating an email with a smiley face. It's like someone buying you a pint, and just before handing it over, dipping their cock in it. "Thanks for the pint… tastes a bit cocky, though…" Auden, Camus, Lawrence (even Norman-fucking-Mailer) – all the stroppy greats – managed literary sincerity in everyday life without punctuating everything with a childlike escape hatch. Can you imagine ol' DH writing “The essential American soul is hard, isolate, stoic and a killer… ;-)"? You know, just in case anyone thought he actually MEANT IT. But if someone created a 'Punch To The Throat' emoticon, I might use that. If I'd had a bad day.
It was still fairly early in the evening when the finger stabbed between my ribs and almost made me totally lose control of my pint. I swivelled, and there she was. All eyes and wide grin, and with, as always, several layers too many of her 'night-out' make-up on her face. A moment of surprise gave way to a second or two of awkwardness, before we settled into the cosy rhythm of chatter that we somehow managed to achieve during these random collisions. No, she wasn't seeing anyone (neither was I). Yes, we should go out for a drink and a proper catch-up (I was secretly concerned we'd covered everything in the several minutes of yak-avalanche that was currently burying us). And then she turned to her group of friends — re-coating, burrowing into the depths of bottomless bags and wondering which way the toilets were — and announced, almost reluctantly, her need to move on somewhere else. The hastily, and poorly, assembled biplane of hope that had unconsciously spluttered into life, now cut out — the too-heavy cargo of expectation causing the feeble under-carriage to wheeze and collapse. A kiss, and then she rested her head on my shoulder for an endless moment before turning and wiggling away. Joe returned from the bar and brushed his hand across my shoulder. "Jesus. Have you been hodding bricks at any point this evening?" I looked down at the thick smear of foundation now covering the front, and most of the collar of my shirt. "Oh, for fuck's sake", I said, shooting a devastating face-of-war across the pub, straight into her eyes, blowing the well-meant smile off her face like a precision missile strike.
He didn’t believe in pornography, he felt it exploited vulnerable women who couldn’t earn a respectable living. So in protest he’d masturbate over his own paintings of mythical creatures. The paintings often consisted of farm yard animals with very human expressions, engaging in traditional sex positions. He signed his work with his own semen, in hope that he’d make millions one day. He said he’d put the money he earned into bringing down the porn industry. He’d never admit that the reason he had such strong feelings against it was that when his parents explained ‘the birds and the bees’ they merely showed him the video they had saved from where and when he was conceived. It was in barn, which I suppose explains the subject matter of his paintings. As you’ve probably gathered, his parents were rather odd too. His mother was narcoleptic and fell asleep whenever he opened his mouth to speak to her. His father on the other hand was an insomniac, who struggled with the concept of being asleep, and being awake, and claimed he couldn’t tell the difference. His father was a figure he had always looked up too. They shared the same name. I’ve decided not to name them because after telling them I was going to write about their mishaps, they harmoniously told me that they’d break off my fingers and stitch them to my upper lip so that it’d make it easier to eat my own toes when they fed them to me.
“It was always the same: she would go to the country and think about her problems in the city. When she was in the city, she would think of escaping to the country. Except for this time: maybe it was the crisp, cold weather, or her new green sweater, but she was truly fully here, lost amid the open spaces outside, calmed by the empty air and the quiet. She picked f lowers, watched the wind send the trees back and forth. She closed her eyes. Peace.�
Waiting there, he must, usually, look for some ref lection somewhere that held him like a gaze somewhere. A train amblingly hustled a woosh through the towers built up beautifully or so; then, he thought, a skyscrapertop chemical-y spray grayed into mostly air spectrally-umbilically wherein, definitely, he felt, some winky vetting formalty’d occurred or was about to propping uhhp some halfcrazy man somewhere into a position of irreconcilable power. He must observe in the lines everywhere a glassy and metalishness angled just so booming into corners and adjacencies o’erwhelmingly, men in boxes carrying cases needed rightaway, 42year-infinite phenomenal determinations raygunning him to this fterbirthy spot twixt blue parallel slouching velvety cordons buckled to the tellecounter like walletchains, placing him, he thought, as solitarily as a single white square on the derisive sextacoloured face of a rubrik’s — Hi how are you Fine, thank you, he said not returning the favor. She stared. I need to cash this cheque, please, and — You just need to swipe your card there He moved to. The other way, she said, like the picture He had, he was sure. And also to check my balance, please, he continued. A telephone rang and rang. He keyed in his exacting code. He stank like an animal, he was sure. He hadn’t showered in a week but nobody’d looked at him like it. A telephone rang and rang; someone must have picked it up. Keyboard taps, indecipherable voices lowed tersely midrange amid immeasurabl walking-bys; trippings, black mats folding in wintry piss. Escalators mobilized althroughout the gaping hall, bouncing in the light. A vigorous voice lied by certain about some plan. A telephone rang and rang; a baby cried; burst cluminated. Transport again! Hell there it goes, that steely sound’ll fall way down the phallusrails to wombburbi — Thankyou have a great day bye Such unwholesome eventsies made him undesirably aware to a point of motivated impersistence. He doubted fairly strongly this new-agy thing about letting it all just be some, or even completely. Afterall what then of everything — the caboodle’s function in a let-it-be world of infinitely happy stayputs. Perhaps why Lama couldnt let go Tibet, he thought, or let be the end of letting it be in that wonderfully isolate region, destined, Lama, to just let it be everyelsewhere. The great fightless yet fought-for hen egg perfection.
He’s often around, although you wouldn’t know (He’s awfully small and he walks rather low). He wanders the streets of the city at night Terribly slow, never quite in the light. He’s made up of dust and a bit of stray hair, So light on his feet that he’s nearly not there. You’ve seen him before, almost everyone comes Face to face with him once whilst he’s searching for crumbs. So, if you’re walking through town and discover a mark On your coat or your hand, something smudgy and dark You’ve made a new friend, one who will never show; He’s often around, although you wouldn’t know.
I want you. Yes, YOU! I want you to believe in me. It's not difficult, honest. There are people in the world that dedicate their entire lives to beliefs and ideologies. What's a few measly seconds of unadulterated belief? So please, pay attention. Don't just casually dismiss this as contrived ramblings hidden within syntax errors. I need it. You can do it. Just close your eyes. And believe. Concentrate real hard and... There. Wasn't so hard now, was it?
My self-portrait is perhaps the one to blame Shh Maybe not. It’s rather difficult to say. I had hanged it in the hallway when the hallway was green Shh It’s a vivid memory. Easily the longest I had been without shaving. Shh My portrait is not to blame After all Shh
Don’t you dare shrug now!
Are you scared of the light? What? The light? The light is scared of me. The light does not want me for I cannot compliment it. My face is not right. For light? For light. My face is wrong. My face is a separate organ. I am not my face. I am my mind. What kind? A kind of mind. A kind mind. I struggle to be kind in the light. Because your face‌? Is not right.
Cuts by Jon Leigh Contributors were asked to create a written response to the ‘drawings’. All images were produced on the iPad by Jon Leigh. Written contributions by: Josh Flint John Albanis Amy Schreibman Walter Duncan Baizley Toby Lee Molly White Sean Morrison Avi Salzman Joseph Crane Special Thanks to Charlie Kwai © Jon Leigh Jonnyleigh@hotmail.com