TAOHOUSEREADER
VOL. 1
CONTENTS Preface -- Pg. 4
Schizophrenic Sapience -- Pg. 6 Eastern Exile -- Pg. 11 Diagonally -- Pg. 17 January Sunsets -- Pg. 18
TAOHOUSE I s t hi s a mani f es t o? A mi s s i on- s t at ement ? A l ong har d l ook i nt o t he pr ov er bi al mi r r or ? Wel l , i t ' s wor ds , t hat ' s f or s ur e - - and may be t hat ' s al l i t c an or s houl d be; may be t hat ' s al l we need r i ght now. .
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TaoHous e: TaoHous e i s a c ol l ec t i on of i ndi v i dual s . TaoHous e i s a way f or ar t i s t s t o i nt er ac t c r eat i v e r es our c es .
wi t h ot her ar t i s t s and t o pool
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TaoHous e i s j us t a gr oupc hat , mai nl y . TaoHous e i s a s emi - ac t i v e Fac ebook page wi t h i nt er es t i ng quot es . TaoHous e i s about a doz en and a hal f f l es h- and- bl ood peopl e. TaoHous e i s a l ot of audi o f i l es and j our nal pages and c anv as es . TaoHous e i s unapol oget i c al l y pr agmat i c ; s ame way a bus i nes s t r i es t o ac qui r e money .
i t ' s t r y i ng t o ac qui r e at t ent i on t he
TaoHous e i s c hi l di s hl y i deal i s t i c ; i t ' s t r y i ng t o hand ev er y one a c r ay on and get t hem t o hel p c ol or i n a pi c t ur e. TaoHous e i s c y ni c al l y s el f - awar e; i t under s t ands t hat i f t her e was a hambur ger f or ev er y wi de- ey ed ar t - c ol l ec t i v e on t he i nt er net , wor l d hunger woul dn' t be a pr obl em. ( Obes i t y woul d, t hough. ) TaoHous e is bl i s s f ul l y obl i v i ous ; it behav es l i ke it was t he f i r st ar t - c ol l ec t i v e ev er , l i k e ev er y t hi ng was pur e pot ent i al - - s eas t o c r os s , c ont i nent s t o di s c ov er , pl anet s t o l and on and t hen name af t er i t s el f .
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Lapi dar y s el f - des c r i pt i ons as i de, TaoHous e i s an ar t - c ol l ec t i v e bas ed i n Buf f al o, NY, and t hi s i s i t s f i r s t ev er Reader . As an ar t - c ol l ec t i v e, we' r e dev ot ed t o t he c r eat i on and pr opagat i on of new ar t - - s pec i f i c al l y , of our ar t and t he ar t of ot her s who i ns pi r e us . As s uc h t hi s r eader c ont ai ns wr i t i ngs , pai nt i ngs , dr awi ngs and mor e f r om our own member s and f r om our as s oc i at es . TaoHous e was f ounded s o t hat c r eat or s f r om v ar i ous di s c i pl i nes c oul d i nt er ac t wi t h and i nf l uenc e one anot her , and we hope t hat t hi s Reader i l l us t r at es t he f i r s t f ur t i v e s uc c es s es of t hat mi s s i on.
EYESABOVE
Sch i zop h r en i c Sap i en ce BY
Satya Srinivas Ramanujam Gundu
The dulcet beat meets The hoary and once erudite Greek?s visage. Tristesse studied his lineament, So much so, it now became a part. Accelerando!
Thunderous rumbles, countless mumbles, The accented melody led to a denouement, At which point the mellifluous beat returned, Only to become ominous and of a speedy judgment. Accompagnato!
Unhallowed discord smote the Greek, Blaspheming in his synagogue. Head placed in hands to assuage discordance. Then the tune turns tonal to atone, He now with back erect, Is a mirthful terpsichorean.
Became he, a cachinnating coryphĂŠe searching ABaying Concertina Among Brutally Crucified Vistas of sanity. Staccato! Staccato!
He slipped deeper into the Moribund Munificence of Murdering Melody By at first, Inveigling Sanity, and then
That melodic dis-junct, confuted all others; at this his littered conscience repined!
The momentary bliss Prophylactically sank him down, Catechized his sense. Blenching, he, Blanched At the Concatenating Contumelies of his conniving self.
The music ceased, His body wheezed, His incorrigible insanity he sized, Realizing there was nothing he prized, shattered his silicate accolades.
Bereft of melody, he began making his own? Reverenced Reams, Margaritaceous Medals, Dazzling Diamonds, Crowned Crystals, Browning Bricolage of Aggrandizing Awards? all paid gratuitous homage to the dissuading igneous flooring. Cadenza!
Trotting bare foot, He ground shards of glass, Splintered wood and gleaming gold, marring the floor, deluging them in cerise thus recrudesced the melody; triumphant, he perfervidly convulsed. Virtuoso! Virtuoso!
He set ablaze his abode, and Pirouetted through his Latticed, tapestried, vestibule. The blaze now BRIGHTEST. Yet, the fire seemed frail to dragoon him. He twirled and leaped, Like a phoenix in Tartarus So tenuous, So mad!
With the melodic malady, he ended in a brilliant coruscation of incandescence.
BY RYAN RUGGERIO
Tat t erdemal ion By Satya Srinivas Ramanujam Gundu
I am a savage, Without a morsel of salvage, Left behind in carnage; there seemed No salve to soothe me of this defiant vein. I liked not my tribe and I like not to imbibe.
Venturing over valleys and verdure, Vaunting vain and veering vaguely. Occupying all ocular agency offered. Destroying, decimating, deforming, dawdling and dallying.
Prehistoric preponderance proved poignant, I am out of rhyme just as I am not of this time.
Searching sedulously, satiated salubriously. Therein, the thought to that, Comforted, calmed, cajoled.
I know I am foreign to this epoch. I knew there was an earth before, there was an Era that did exactly the same as us. There must have Been an Earth before this birthing in which I lie.
It seems To me I was once another? before this time, one fond of company.
Gregarious, Garrulous, Glimmering, Gloating.
EASTERNEXILE By Thomas Beckley Forrest The seatbelt warning sound rang through the long narrow cabin. A string of instructions blared from the on-flight PA system, first in Mandarin and then in singsong English. I twisted my neck to catch a glimpse of the ground through the airplane window. Finally I saw our destination from high above: Xiamen, a coastal port city of over four million, full of white-tiled buildings and beaches lined with palm trees. The deep ocean that surrounds Xiamen is cut up by long white lines--huge highways that stretch over the water, linking the island city to the Chinese mainland. Considered by many Chinese to be one of their country?s most beautiful and livable cities, Xiamen draws flocks of tourists from all over China every year. However, for me and my family, Xiamen was more than a winter vacation getaway: we had once called it home. Roughly eight years ago, when I was eleven years old and set to begin sixth grade, that horrifying year in every child?s life, my parents sat me down with my tiny sisters and gave us some monumental news. We would spend the entirety of the next academic year in China while my father taught philosophy classes at a university there. That August, with more protest from me than I?m proud to admit, we packed up our lives and jetted to the other side of the planet. In 2007 and 2008, I shared a cramped guesthouse apartment with my five-person family and traveled frequently. The sparse three rooms of my family?s Soviet-era quarters didn?t leave much room for privacy. I remember afternoons spent aimlessly wandering the lush, idyllic campus of the local university, Xiada, where we lived.
The chaos of Chinese culture surrounded me in all the crowded public buses, late-night noodle restaurants, backseats of daredevil taxis, bones of aging temples, or the hectic and unruly traditional markets that my mother crowed over so gleefully. It was in that year I saw more bizarre, alien, and deeply fascinating things that I had ever seen before. Nearly a decade later, my family is living in China through the same program, this time on the west side of Beijing, the country?s sprawling metropolis of a capital. On the third day of my winter break visit, we boarded a plane headed for our old tropical home. After touching down, we hauled our luggage out of Xiamen?s airport to a waiting car driven by Wu Tian Xi, a family friend and lifelong local. Standing on the outside curb with the cool Pacific air on my skin, dozens of childhood memories came rushing back with shocking intensity. I knew the market was gone, though I can still recall its raw, thick smells and smoky bustle---torn down and bulldozed to accommodate a new mall. The Buddhist temple of Nanputuo a block from my old home has thrived, though Buddhist monks sporting Rolexes and driving luxury cars struck me as hilariously out-of-place, if not downright jarring. Leaning out the window of Tian?s Toyota, I noticed other changes in the city whipping by my eyes. Once quaint and nondescript storefronts screamed kitschy slogans like ?Good Time Coffee.? Shiny new cars swarmed every avenue of a once mainly pedestrian city. Even Xiamen University had thousands of automobiles choking its formerly garden-like campus. Downtown Xiamen, previously filled with scaffolding and construction projects, has been repopulated with clusters of modern skyscrapers. Most visibly, two massive identical spires of shimmering glass loom high over the rest of the city. They are so new to the skyline that one is not even fully built yet. When I remarked on the towers to Tian, he nodded and said that they?re supposed to be mostly
residential. ?Ah yes. Very expensive. For rich people.? And there are riches to be had around Xiamen. As Tian and many others told me, Xiamen is in the midst of an unprecedented boom, raking in tourism, commerce and foreign investment to support various burgeoning industries. While the idea of high-rise luxury apartments for the wealthy seemed innocuous enough to my American eyes, in a country that viciously resisted capitalism mere decades ago, the towers are symbols of a swiftly changing society. American journalist Evan Osnos compared the current socio-political climate in China to that of the United States??Gilded Age?: a period of sweeping industrialization and urban migration that saw the rise of a new middle class along with entrepreneurs. The darker aspects of our Gilded Age are present in uniquely Chinese fashion: debilitating government corruption and grinding living conditions for the industrial labor force and rural poor. The tight grip that the long-ruling Communist Party holds on Chinese society, especially on the media, makes serious public discussion of such social issues difficult. Chinese citizens must adapt to a society that in terms of appearance, values, and structure, has transformed more in the last decade than ever before. Something to consider: many scholars have called the migration from countryside to cities currently underway in China the largest human movement in the shortest period of time in the history of the world. In the giant city of Beijing, where I must have seen more iPhones than at any other point in my life, Western culture?s influence is obvious. Walking along the avenue of Sanlitun, a long drag of flashy bars, restaurants, and nightclubs catering to Beijing?s foreign expat community, I came upon the half-outdoor mall of Tai Koo Li. Tai Koo Li, a miniature city of interlinked gray-and-glass brand outlets, boasts everything from Starbucks to Adidas. It looked like some futuristic daydream, a far cry from the grimy backstreets and traditional teahouses that usually come to mind when thinking about China. Nearly as ubiquitous in Bejing as the iPhone are President Xi Jinping?s bright red propaganda boards, hanging every subway corridor and bus-stop wall, bearing phrases like ?The Chinese Dream,? ?Growth,? ?Success,? and ?Money,? all ripped straight from
the capitalist American lexicon the Chinese once decried. The Communist Party may still rule with an iron fist, but Mao?s China is long dead. This tumultuous backdrop felt very far away on my last night in Xiamen as I was unwinding in a small bar called The Groove Lounge. I had made an American friend, a twenty-something man named Nick. As we sat in the spectral purple glow of the neon bar, he told me how his life had brought him across the globe from the New York boroughs to Southern China. It was during a long stint working for Wall Street firms that a brief assignment to Hong Kong made him realize he wanted to escape. ?In the East, there isn?t the same structure that there is in the West, especially if you?re a foreigner,? Nick told me over a glass of dark whiskey.?I just felt confined playing the game of living in American society.? Motley collections of foreigners thrive in many Chinese cities, primarily Westerners like Nick whose deep disillusionment with the West had brought them to far-flung locales like Xiamen in search of fresh kicks and new lives. It makes fascinating things possible, like the existence of a cute little two-year-old girl named Daenerys who played on a couch in the Groove Lounge while Nick and I talked. The daughter of the Chinese woman working the bar and the place?s Canadian owner, they named her after the dragon-raising Game of Thrones character. My mind exploded with connections between Chinese culture?s dragon obsession and the fantasy series?most badass character. How could Game of Thrones not be big in the Middle Kingdom? A life of adventure in overseas exile doesn?t come without costs. As Nick and I walked through the favela-like Siming neighborhood to catch taxis and go our separate ways, our conversation took a different tone. The subtropical moon and huge neon Chinese characters hanging over the street cast a moody light over his face. ?Sometimes I wonder what I?m doing with my life,? Nick said with a quiet and fleeting sadness, the kind some men only show after a long night of drinking. ?All of my buddies back in the States are married, one just had a kid.?
Standing on the curb, I asked what he plans to do next. ?In a few years, my contract with the Saudi oil company I?m here with will be up,? he said wryly. ?Then, I guess it?ll be on to somewhere else.? As a taxi whisked him off into the night, I envied him. I knew well the sense of disillusionment that had driven him out of America, for I had shared in it often. The same jadedness and thirst for more that prompted Nick?s relocation made the idea of one day leaving the West behind very attractive to me. Though I believe that humans face and grapple with the same base realities regardless of locale, there is something extraordinary and freeing to me about living in a city halfway around the world with millions of people that are just as human as you but fundamentally different, in a society that did not raise you, with your experience of earth and humanity swelling each passing day.
VISUAL ART HERE
Diagonal l y By Acour Dour
What a day! What a day! I dare say what a day! To love, to curse, and find myself within And all before Big Ben's voice wails through the street This is a story that has been told million of times plus 1 But if reiteration is a sin, cast me down with Poe and let us dine. As a jar of Grape Jelly, I am often not the first choice for any after-school snack Chips, chocolate, , cake and ice cream Have lorded over me in these cupboard my entire existence Until one day Fate gave the windmill a turn and bind us together.
You complete me, you complete me, I dare say, You complete me! With famished eyes that hungered for eccentricity, you scanned throughly and completely at each and one of us. As I prepared to sigh for the millionth time, plus one You paused for an eternity then reached your hand out to me. I hesitated. These cupboards, though my prison, have become too familiar, Enclosed darkness was my world and lonely corners my home. Solitude, my now abating companion, would stay by my side Hour after hour, reminding me how malicious Time truly was And how taciturn Death's bell echoed in the dark
But your fingers commanded me to come hither Assuring me that there was no bottomless pit Hungrily licking its lips, eager for my demise. I went thither. Alone I was too sweet and you too dry But together we harmonized with the salmon and the planets, And strung the redundant yet virgin chord of love.
January Sunset s By Acour Dour What misery there is, to be cursed for existing. While there are those who gladly sit on Father Winter's lap and listen To him sing, make houses of snow and perfectly knitted scarves Most of us quickly get frustrated with this old man and begin to loath him. His songs turn into howls that screech and shriek, Destroying any notion of warmth that your cotton had promised. Their homes become sealed fortresses, with spears of snow Trapping all those that shiver inside. His scarves turn into their own personal, scratchy, hangman's noose I weep for Winter because his only crime is behaving as he is. For 89 days Father's back will ache as he prepares to fulfill his disfavored duty. His ears throb in numbing pain as important men in business coats and little boys with baseball gloves Curse him. But. "Fools" he says, "The sun can only rise if it has set, And the terrible flood brings the soil that produce the harvest. You may loathe me today and tomorrow and your entire existence, And I will wear your hate upon my breast and shine these badges well. Your hate is but temporary and you will look back at me with glee. For when you feel the dew between your toes on an unimportant April morning You will remember when it was ice and will smile. When you sigh, taking in the smell of Roses, Tulips, and Bloodroots, You will remember when that same breath froze in the air and will smile. When Sunday pants are decorated with moss green and earth brown You will remember trudging through hills of powder snow and will smile. Scream your profanities and target your curses at me, I do not mind, for everything will leave as they always do
WEASSUREYOU:TAOHOUSEIS ACTUALLYAVERYBENIGN CONSPIRACY
The Writ er as Al chemist By Evan Murphy
?The true alchemists do not change lead into gold; they change the world into words.? He's right, you know. That's what this all boils down to in the end: alchemy. Writers are alchemists; gnarled, erudite things locked away in dark rooms, trying to achieve immortality. That's what I'm doing now, even -- what all writers end up doing if they sit down to seriously write something -- we try to create the Philosopher's Stone, the Elixir of Life. If you can just put the right letters in the right order, you can live forever. That's how it works: if you put the right letters in the right order -- we?re still working with runes, in a way; still trying to draw a dateless and terrible magick out of rough shapes and symbols -- if you can just get the right letters in the right order, I say, you never have to die. Homer did it, Sophocles did it, Virgil did it; Chaucer, Milton, Shakespeare, Montaigne, Cervantes; Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Proust, Joyce -- grand masters of the art and magicians of frightening power -- deathless, all of them. Magnum Opus has two definitions, the first and most common is "the greatest achievement of an artist or writer," the second -- and the original meaning of the term -- is "the process of creating the philosopher's stone." Perfect, right? The scary thing is I only found that out halfway through writing this. Now come over here, Albertus, let's compare notes and try and get it right this time...
Aut hor's Pref ace By Evan Murphy
Because if you just pick a point on the window and stare at it, you won?t have to make awkward eye-contact with anybody. ?Yeah no I went to sleep around,,, ?- seven and I uh ?- I was up at eleven or something like that and good and trashed by about midnight.? ?Haha? ?Yeah.? The gnawingly hypnotic hum of the bus?s engine; you can feel it in your ass and hear it in the juice of your head even when people are talking. The bus not completely full today but people still have to stand; the two guys talking are standing. ?So good weekend.? ?Haha? Things passing by the point on the window: tree, tree, tree; lamppost in front of tree; empty space, the sky full of wine-colored early-morning sunlight; house; tree. It became stupidly clear about ten minutes ago that it?s dumb and pointless to avoid eye-contact with people on the bus because the people they?re just strangers, and any awkwardness you might share with them would have no effect on your day or on your life, even ?- a thought which co-occurred with the realization that refusing to acknowledge the existence of people you?re enclosed in a sparse mechanical space with is, itself, a kind of perfect synecdoche of the atomized nature of modern industrial society ?- a realization that was quickly appended by the idea that ruminating about stuff like ?the atomized nature of modern industrial society? is about the most clichĂŠd and obvious thing an undergraduate can do ?- a realization which was soon buttressed by the idea that being aware of how clichĂŠd and obvious you were being only mitigated the ?sin?involved, that it didn?t eradicate it completely, ?- that you were still being obvious and banal and dumb, only in a really intricate and self-absorbed way no one could see. You feel tired. ?Emily?s a dime tho? ?Haha? So very, very tired.
He hated this. He hated every single conscious moment of this situation and desperately wanted to find some distraction in his mind. Something. There has to be something up in there that should be able to transport him away from this, he thought hopelessly. He closed his eyes and scavenged his thoughts for any trace of enjoyment; release. He thought of his 3 rd grade teacher and how she walked kinda funny. He tried reciting the Bible but that got too tiresome by the time he finished Exodus and settled on just remembering the important stories. Sister Timothy used to be able to sing any hymn from any church; he was almost positive that she spent more time with those stained glass windows and blistering pews than her own home. Would she still give his cheek a painful pinch and slobbering kiss if she could see him now? How different things were so many years ago. How long was a year really? The years went by faster than he could hold on to but the consequences of choices lingered. The Passenger then remembered he failed the 3 rd grade and didn?t want to cloud his head with negative thoughts. Not now, can?t have those thoughts at a time like this. He tried to recollected who won the Super Bowl this year and but couldn?t. That was a long time ago when he was a different person and things like touchdowns mattered. He hated this car. It was an ugly color and the seats were uncomfortable. The AC didn?t work so he and the Driver had to drive all 200 miles basking in the heat. The engine made a gurgling sound after each time the car came to a stop and the smell of gasoline lingered in the car. Fuck this car, fuck this day. Fuck everything and everyone. Fuck me for even doing this but most of all, fuck you. The Passenger opened his eyes and looked at the Driver twirling his coin. He always carried that thing with him. ?Gotta always have money on my mind AND hands? he would say with bending half-smirk but quickly burst out into an appalling laugh if someone was foolish enough to give him attention. After a few moments of staring his staring, the Driver turned to the Passenger and gave him that same half-bent smirk as a sign of acknowledgement. At that moment the Passenger was ready to take a hold of his partner?s neck and squeeze the life out of it. He would kill him while donning his own half-bent smile on his face and willingly stand before the court and admit to it. And it would all be worth it. Worth never hearing that voice, smelling that scent, seeing that smile. The clash of metal on metal halted the Passenger?s thoughts. Following the trail of noise he saw that the Driver had dropped his coin unto the coffee holder. The Driver shot a glance at his direction then waited. That fucker. He always had him pick the coin up after it dropped. No matter where they were, if it fell, the Passenger picked it up. If he didn?t then he?d hear the Driver mumble under his breath about how and petty selfish humans are. So he picked it up and hated it. Every muscle and nerve that was required for him to lift it from whatever surface it landed on. As he reached up to hand him the only thanks that was given was a familiar yet grotesque smile. Before rage consumed him and engrossed him yet again, the Passenger quickly turned on the radio and retreated back into his thoughts. He wandered again until he stumbled unto Helen. He could envision her perfectly, as if she was almost there. Her scent filled his nostrils with sweet memories of summer nights and French perfumes. Thoughts of cinnamon and swing sets clouded
his mind and she was in the middle of it all. He could feel her hands when he touched the legs of his pants. Her moist hands because she always kept sanitizer with her; she refused to let her hands stay dry for more than 2 hours at any given time. The music on the radio waned as her laugh echoed through his ears. Oh how he needed to hear that melodic chuckle now of all times! Whenever she said his name he had to pause and quickly remember that yes, she was saying his name. This goddess was not just talking to him but calling him by name and his name never sounded better than when it came from her lips. Her touch exhilarated him. Just holding her hand made him intoxicated with silly thSuddenly he was shook. As he frustratingly opened his eyes was staring at his Driver. With a nod the Driver signaled that they were here and the Passenger was once again dragged back into the dismal flickering candle that was his life. A dark car had pulled up and 4 people in black suits had stepped out. One had a suitcase while the others trialed not too far behind him. They all had unsmiling faces with menacing furrowed brows that seemed to be disgusted by the sight of everything that came into view. He and the Driver stepped out to meet the new visitors; the event of the evening had just started. As they came face to face with the Blacksuits the Passenger couldn?t help but be frightened. This murder of crows seemed to walk in perfect unison without missing a step. If it weren?t for their varying heights, the Passenger would?ve had a hard time distinguishing one from another. Despite the heat of the day, none of them seemed to have sweat one bullet while wearing a full suit. Their ties weren?t even loosened. They had glasses but not the one with the case. He stared at both of them directly in the eyes refusing to look away for politeness. His gaze was definite and altered between the Driver and Passenger. He stared peculiarly at the Passenger as if measuring him up and contemplating how many bits it would take to chew him up. After a very long time of silence the Driver finally spoke up: ?Is that the stuff?? The question lingered in the air like a cigarette that has been lit inside a time bathroom and the man with the case made no indication of hearing the question. He continued to stare at the Driver and Passenger intently. Finally the Driver made a move to reach for the case and that caused a frenzy. All of the blacksuits pulled out their weapons and aimed it at the Driver. Quickly realizing that his action caused this reaction, he pulled back and put his hands up, pleading his innocence. Coward! As cool as he tried to act the Passengar knew it was just that, an act. Poke the lion once and it reverts back to a pussycat. ?First you do your part, then you get your money, American.? The Driver gestured to his partner to go retrieve the package in the trunk. That lazy bastard, even in a time like this, couldn?t just once get off his ass and do it himself. But the Passenger found himself unlocking the trunk and picking up the heavy duffle bag just the same, imaging all of the varied ways a man could be killed in a car. He settled on simply choking him from the backseat with a rope or belt. Maybe one of those charming gentleman in black would be willing to loan him one of their ties, he chuckled to himself quietly. As he came around the car back to the Driver and the Men in Black it was as though he never left. The Driver was now sweating profusely however but the Men in the back remained as still and silent as stone. He couldn?t tell if they were
looking at him or simply through him, as if he weren?t even there; the dark shades left no hint of eyes that belonged to a being with a soul. The Driver grabbed the suitcase from his partner?s hand and then handed it to the man without black glasses. The Man did not even reach for it and made the driver stand there dangling the suitcase, confused and frightened. Finally one of the Men in the back grabbed it, opened it, and nodded to their leader. Smiling, the Man in black looked like a completely new person. His eyes had a gleam and his cheekbones rose so high that his eyes squinted, making it seem as though his eyes were closed. The Driver returned with his own repulsive smile that pleased the Man. As the Driver reached to shake their hand, concluding the deal when he dropped his coin. The bastard. He?d kill him now and that was the end of it. In fact he was already dead but just living on borrowed time now, the Passenger thought. If the Driver waited for the Passenger to pick it up, he?d definitely kill him as soon as they left this grim ramp, as God?s my witness. The Driver turned to his Passenger and gave him that sly smile, the smile a gypsy gives to a tourist while he?s picking their pockets. The Passenger bent down to reach for it but not before he spit at the Driver?s shoes. That gave him some sort of satisfaction, a small victory in a war that was lost long ago. As he got up to hand him his filthy coin he saw not the eyes of the Man in black but was looking down the barrel of this dark ebony gun. The Driver wiped the spit from his shoe as a suitcase was handed to him by one of the Men in black. He immediately made his way back to the car they arrived in, straining himself not to look at his partner on the floor, holding a worthless coin in his hand. AS he turned the ignition he was swallowed with guilt and allowed himself one last glance at his partner of 200 miles, he?d give him that much before leaving him to his doomed fate. What he saw was not what he expected. He wanted to see anger in the eyes of the man who just spat on his worn out suede shoes. But instead he saw defeat and anguish. He saw the same look when he was 27 in Mexico for his anniversary. A boy was sitting in the middle of the road while birds pecked at his skin but made no motion to brush them away or protect himself. He of course could?ve helped the boy out but his wife wanted him home in time for a couples?tango lesson or some shit. That same little boy was looking him in the eyes now, 10 years later but instead wore a blue pinstriped shirt and denim jeans and had a gun to his head. He quickly drove away, attempting to leave the pain behind again, but from now on he saw the Mexican child each when he got up in the morning to wash his face. There are worse ways to die. I could?ve been thrown into a lake and drowned. Or burned alive, that would?ve been unbearable. But in the end dying was dying and was at least grateful that it would be quick. The Passenger quickly cursed himself as the thought entered his mind. Only a coward like him would be weighing out his options at a time like this as the sound of his partner?s car still echoed away, slowly getting fainter and fainter. The man without glasses gave the gun to one of his henchmen as he himself went back to his car, suitcase in hand. The man in black cocked his gun back and pressed it directly on the Passenger?s head. Strangely enough it felt like the way Helen would flick his head every morning to wake him up. She?d then open all of the blinds and windows and removing all of the blankets from the bed. Sometimes he?d pretend to be asleep despite her best efforts until she attempted to shake him from his slumber. Then he?d grab her
and throw her unto to the bed with her and bombard her with tickles and kisses until she gave in and spent the rest of the day in bed with her. But this was no flick and there wouldn?t be any kisses to follow. He remembered hoAnd then the dimly lit parking ramp was filled with a white flash.
Nervous Wreck By Christopher D'Amato
Heather sat silently in her father?s 2003 Subaru Outback as it began to unconsciously take form of a vaguely familiar living room she later decided her mind created by referencing color schemes and decor from both childhood visits to her great-aunt?s house and Full House episodes. She started to imagine how DJ Tanner would conduct herself in a situation like this and then began to laugh finding it weird how she could relate herself to a television show character as if she were a real person with the ability to be placed in reality-based-scenarios in an attempt to create some sort of cathartic release. ?That?s crazy,? she thought to herself with a weird sense of empathy for both her and DJ. She began to crack another smile, dismissing the fact that if anyone knew she was thinking this they would assume she was delusional or, at the very least, stumped in her personal development. Feeling a little weird at this point, she realized she successfully stopped thinking about what happened a little over two minutes ago, but in this realization, began to start thinking about it again. ?This is a trap,? she said solemnly as mental images of the Admiral Akbar internet meme flashed through her head. At this point, her mind was cloaked in a galaxy far, far away and it actually began to anger her that people call The Phantom Menace a bad movie. ?You need that movie in order for the double trilogy to survive, without the story of An? ? The sound of his car engine allowed the living room to vanish; she watched him leave the cemetery?s parking lotout of her car?s passenger side mirror. Hopeless, she tried to find the initial positives of this situation because that has often proved beneficial as her defense mechanism. She started to think about her 12th grade English class and how it sparked a sense of intuitiveness that she has since carried with her. ?That?s classic comedy,? she said half sarcastically as her grip on the steering wheel tightened, ?he?s leaving me here to die. But, that?s what makes irony so funny.? She noticed her mind racing again, but that was okay. She was alone. She cried while longing for the comfort William brought her even though he seemed faintly disinterested for awhile. Though he ended their relationship seven minutes and twenty-two seconds ago, she knew this was only clarification. She has been waiting for this moment for six months. How often she would step on pins and needles, relentlessly disallowing herself any power, any clarity, and any hope she had of stability because of her inherent need for tranquility. The mental reminder of this made her question her own sanity. ?Or possibly my genetic make up,? she began to think almost angrily, ?because why would I chase him in hopes of being tranquil when the idea of a chase is literally the exact opposite.? She began to think that it was crazy for her to think that she was crazy, and that it was even crazier of her to think that her genetics make her crazy. This, in turn, made her feel crazier. ?Of course,? she audibly repeated four times before thinking about Stoicism and how this situation really shouldn?t affect her because one, it?s out of her control ? ?at least now,? she snarled at herself ? and two, because she never really had feelings for him. She thought, at least.
thought of was actually common sense and the fact that she didn?t realize this sooner could denote delusion. She didn?t realize she was a placeholder, someone to pass the time for him until he either found himself or someone more inspiring, but then it began to upset her that she was this saddened even though she believed she was acting similarly, simultaneously. ?It?s been over,? she said in an attempt to try to sound self confident almost eight minutes ago, knowing all too well that they both knew she wasn?t, that she didn?t want it to be over, and that she was too weak to ever confront him about his eye for some faceless and nameless girl she caught him frequently fantasizing about; manifested from a combination of his previously failed relationships. She could sense it in his physicality: the way his hands held her face in an almost aggressive manner when they kissed, the way his peripheral would shift in order for him to not see her when she would gracefully kiss him on either cheek, the way he moved away from her in bed moments after what she viewed as intimate and personal interaction. It was almost as if he began to resent her the more he realized he was the reason his relationships failed. She started to drive home. ~ William was watching from his 2009 Mazda5 a face he grew to become all too familiar with; bursts of his blank faced mother, sisters, and previous significant others almost blinded him before he was forced to drown out the deafening sobbing that he was conditioned to associate this type of face with. He searched his car for this one CD album he?s been listening to a lot lately. ?I gotta find Nocturne,? he thought, ?it?s the only thing that will make me feel, well, I don?t know what it?ll make me feel. I know that I need it though, where is? ? It was in this moment he realized that one: he drove to this cemetery in silence and two: why he liked this album so much. ?Its comforting because of what it reminds me of, yeah, yeah that?s it.? Oh, and three: that this CD has been the only one in his car for the past six months. He turned his car on and played the first song. As Shadow by Wild Nothing began to play and he heard the lyrics, ?Oh why is your hate so addicting and I, well I wonder where you've been. I don't see you often. I try to feel something for you. But that's all that I can do. Give my shadow to you,? he began to cry. He also began to wonder why he was so emotional, especially as of late. ?I guess it?s just me coming to terms with my own inabilities,? he thought solemnly, while unknowingly starting his engine. Watching from his driver side mirror, he noticed that he startled her and decided to leave. In leaving, he realized the theatrical nature of what just happened and smiled for a bit, but he had trouble staying on this train of thought. ?Why does my life always feel like a movie?? he thought to himself while driving well over the speed limit in a half snarky and half paranoid way, coming off a recent viewing of The Truman Show. Imagining the situations he found himself in the past year and a half, he began to find it hard to believe that his life wasn?t directed and produced by a third party. It didn?t matter at this point. All he could think about was her. He never felt worthy of her; she was everything he could?ve asked for. Although his past made him upset, she made him forget. ?Why am I forcing myself to forget her?? he screamed. He was distant within the last couple of months of this relationship, but he didn?t now how to act
any differently; he can?t stomach failure or abandonment. ?I always manage to fuck things up,? he screamed again as Only Heather played almost symbolically as he thought about all of the people he pushed away just as there was mutual opening up. ?They?ll never understand,? he thought referencing his previously failed relationships, ?She?ll never understand,? he said with a certain humility and quiver. ?She thinks I used her, she thinks I never loved her.? He began to think about his anxiety, for it has been steadily increasing in weight this entire car ride. ?I feel crazy,? he thought to himself as the word ?crazy? flashed over and over again in his head, taking a different nervous color and shape each time. He felt more anxious. He thought about her. He hated that there was no genuine communication, that there was no way he could tell her he loved her because he was so scared if they were to ever end, his anxiety would be debilitating. ?I can never take my Xanax prescription,? he thought lacking confidence but yet full of sincerity, ?I?ve seen too much harm, I could never be able to handle it.? ?But look at me now,? he snapped at himself, recalling how for months he would chose his words and phrases decisively in an attempt to create space between the two of them, in an attempt to justify what happened over thirty minutes ago at some point afterwards. ?I?m not feeling that justification now,?he thought as he noticed he hadn?t stopped crying. He started to feel like a placeholder for her.