Zoster

I wanted to write some fiction tonight, but it's not going to happen. A lovely shingles outbreak has emerged on the right side of my face, just below my temple. My cheek has swollen considerably, and is in quite a lot of pain. It looks like I've been stung by a bee. Right now it's burning and throbbing like mad. An unbelievable amount of heat comes off the thing. The skin on the surface has begun to blister and scale. Pure sexiness.

Coincidentally, I'm exhausted. I think I'll go to sleep soon.

I'd told the Pofuser I would write something about it, about how my shingles are like a tenant I can't evict, but I've lost interest. My body's become a lavish and lush, luxury housing complex for the virus. Good old Zoster set up residency in the Penthouse suite, perched right atop the cheekbone, with a bird's eye view of it all.

I can't remember the joke now, but I guarantee you it was mediocre and only barely funny at the time.

Older Now

"Do you think it's just that we're older now," he asked her.

"Maybe. I'm not sure if it's because we're older, or because the world has actually gotten worse," she said.

He paused for a moment. Overhead, three large crows were circling the sun. Where he sat the grass was soft and green and the air was warm. Stroking the hair on his chin he started to speak but then stopped, searching for a reply.

"What if it hasn't gotten worse," he said, "what if we've just gotten more sensitive to it?"

She didn't say anything. She leaned back onto the blanket, so the sun splayed over her chest, and looked up at the sky. He could tell she was thinking by the way her jaw clenched gently two or three times.

"I was reading an article the other day," he continued, "about baldness. Have you ever wondered why men start to bald on the top of the head rather than the sides?"

She shook her head and sipped her drink.

"Well, as we age, the hairs on the top of the head become more sensitive to a chemical the body produces, called DHT, and the hairs fall out."

"So the body produces more of the chemical as they get older, then?" she asked.

"Nope," he said smugly, before sipping his beer, "the concentration stays the same."

"I see where you're going with this," she said, "but you can't compare a person's worldview to a balding head."

"Can't I?" he asked, smiling, "I just did. It makes sense. The world hasn't changed that much since we were kids; we have."

"Bullshit," she said as she leaned toward him and lowered her sunglasses, "technology has changed everything. It's made us more connected and more alone, and you know it."

He liked the way she flushed slightly when she got excited. Or maybe it was the sunburn. But between her reddened cheeks and her sharp eyes, her bright blonde hair, and the way her shirt slipped slightly from her skinny shoulder revealing a gentle splash of freckles there, he knew she was everything. All it took was her smile and the sound of her laughter to disarm him. Even now he was lost in her eyes.

"What, you've got nothing to say," she asked, "no clever remark?"

"None."

She hit his arm and laid back down. He looked over her, out around the park, at the young children playing and waving bubble wands in the wind. He watched the little circles float delicately on the breeze while the children laughed and chased them. All it would take was a sudden change in altitude, or for something to get in the way for one of them to burst. Love was like a bubble, he thought, existing magically, held together by some invisible force, barely there, somehow slow and light and empty, yet full. Neither bubbles nor love are built to last very long at all. And neither can be helped very much. Both seem a fading, fickle deceit, suspended somewhere between the thinness of our imaginations and a dream.

"Let's get ice cream," she said brightly as she sat up.

"Ice cream?"

"Yeah," she yelled as she grabbed his forearm. "Come on, let's go."

He'd get ice cream with her, of course. Not because he wanted to, particularly, but because right now the weather was warm, and it wouldn't be forever.

Fell

The cup fell from the table. It crashed onto the floor and made a high-pitched yelp. The scattering of shattered glass across a wood floor. Emma's heart jumped, startled from the sound.

"Jesus," she said as she looked at the pieces of the glass.

The cup had been empty, thankfully. It had fallen next to a power strip beside her desk. The water would have fried her computer, or her new lamp, the old alarm clock. It was 2:17. She must have fallen asleep and knocked the glass off the edge of the table. She sipped the cold coffee from the mug on the other side of the desk. She swallowed. It tasted stale. A loud gulp and it slushed down her throat and fell heavy into her belly. Her stomach gurgled.

"Ugh," she said, sighing, as she heaved herself up out of her warm chair and swayed into the next room in search of a broom to sweep up the shards. She collected them in a small blue dustpan and emptied them into a small metallic garbage can; the little cylindrical kind you press your foot onto to make the lid pop up. A cat jumped down from a worn looking chair in the corner of the room across from where Emma had knocked over the glass. The cat was calico, orange, black and yellow, with piercing green eyes. The chair had scratch marks on the legs where the cat, Fever, had made a habit of stretching its arms. Fever curled its belly in toward its spine and made its best impression of a lower-case letter n before sauntering off into the room where Emma was putting away the broom.

Curious what the commotion was about, the cat calmly surveyed the scene. After it was satisfied with its investigation it tiptoed toward its bowl and made some waves in the water with a few flicks of its tongue. Its tail wagged from side to side behind it, like a flame. Emma felt odd, suddenly weak. She had been up for a long time. She wanted to go to sleep but she needed to finish her presentation.

Meow, Fever said as it rubbed up against Emma's shin.

Emma smiled faintly, bent down, and gave Fever a few long strokes from head to tail. She stood up. One step. Two steps. Three steps. Fall. Fever's tail stood straight, eyes wide.

Meow.

Emma lived on the bottom floor of her apartment building. The building was old and the walls were thick. Had she gone to the doctor earlier, instead of putting it off for work, she would have found out she had diabetes. She would have found out that her blood sugar was dangerously low, that skipping lunch was a bad idea, and that skipping dinner was even worse. Had she gone to the doctor she would have discovered it wasn't the caffeine that was making her shaky.

But none of that mattered now, nothing mattered now, except that the work needed to get done. Sure, someone would have to do it, but it wouldn't be Emma. She wouldn't be doing much of anything, anymore.

Sunday Morning Smidgen Reprise

I think it's a double post kind of day. The weather has remained persistently beautiful but I've only been out in it to run errands. When I was in the sun I did walk leisurely, though. I've been listening to a lot of music today, in an attempt to start accumulating some smooth, retro-psych jams to play in the desert. Last year I'd gotten a head start and spent the year collecting groovy tunes to dazzle the cochlea with, but this year I'm scrambling to scour all streaming services for songs that fit the bill. It's hard work and requires constant attention. The reward is that I'm discovering tons of new music. And also that I'll have some sweet songs to wrap around the rosy, sunburnt ears of any desert travelers who'll hear me. There is so much music in the world. So much. More than anyone could ever listen to in a lifetime. Listening to even a fraction of it would be a respectable feat. I've always envied those who possess an extensive knowledge of music, those who've dedicated themselves to cataloguing the world's sound as it evolves and changes over time and place. It speaks from the soul of people, and because we only exist at a fixed point in time, it would follow that music is a true reflection of our pained temporality. If you need a reminder of this, just listen to any music from the 80's. All of our hopes and dreams and fears and frustrations seep out into song. It's odd how music can be simultaneously so personal and impersonal.

I came across my third Sunday Morning song while I was in the laundromat. The last choice I need to make today is what to have for dinner. I'm tempted to cook but I should have prepared for this earlier. So instead I'll force myself out into the world and stuff my face full of something that I'll shit out soon after. Next time you hear someone say that humans just turn everything to shit, remember, they're right. What part of our lives is spent squeezing things out of our bodies; piss, shit, cum, puss, sweat, tears, heat. Perhaps that's what's distinct about music. It's something we can squeeze out and preserve exactly as it was. It is as close to imperishable as any human art could be. Music dies when it is forgotten. But then, doesn't everything?

The hairs in my beard smell vaguely of garlic, which is strange, because I haven't eaten garlic today. How long does garlic stay in your system do you think? It was Friday when I last had some.

I started this post with more steam but it has since dissipated. The music calls. I thought I could juggle both, but that's proving too much.

Adieu.

Sunday Morning Smidgen

Sunday morning. It's sunny and I've nothing to do. It's great. So far I've inadvertently listened to two different songs titled Sunday Morning and I'm hoping for a third. Since last weekend I've made it a point to take it easy; rein in the drinking, adhere to a strict exercise regimen, eat right, sleep. The results are palpable. Functioning in the world seems easier, miraculously more manageable. Hangovers color the world something awful. Everything becomes a burden, the simplest of tasks a chore. Drinking is insidious and subversively masochistic. It is to self-inflict a handicap, to try and laugh with a bruised rib.

Why do we drink? We seem to be uncomfortable with the notion of ease, always desiring it but never satisfied with its attainment. How we love something to complain about, to struggle with, or against. As soon as we achieve a true sense of leisure, either on a vacation or after securing a pocket of personal time, we grow bored and restless, guilt and fear fuel the voice in our heads that tells us we are unproductive. We can't relax. It is only when we are confronted with deep exhaustion that we can rest, and even then it is not by choice. Overworked and overtaxed, financially, spiritually, emotionally, we seek meager reprieves through distraction, indulgence, petty attempts at vying for control, so that however briefly, we might escape, or even command the dizzying chaos that rules us. Few are willing to admit that true control comes from submission, that to really usurp that which enslaves you, you must surrender.

This is paradoxical, however, because there is an assumed loss of agency, and how can one really be free if they are entirely without dominion? It is because they have agreed to the terms - they are complicit in their subjugation. To embrace a thing diminishes its power over you; sovereignty through surrender. But how is this true for something like alcoholism? To submit to addiction does not give one strength, in fact, it grants unrestrained power to the force. To be at its mercy is undesirable. What, then?

Are we to resist, to yell and scream and not go gently into that good night? Are we then only enslaved to our own stubborn will? The puerile hubris of our privileged position on this planet? One which tells us we can overcome, that we are an exceptional exception, that the will of the world is ours to bend and shape?

Some have said "freedom is the feeling one gets when they are not aware of what truly controls them." Then perhaps it is ignorance that bestows the most total freedom, the blissful abandon of a child. Maybe to be unattached to an outcome is the highest level of achievement. There is wisdom in only taking what you need, when you need it. The child analogy falls apart in that children require care, their existence necessitates stress and struggle on behalf of the parent - the parent bears the burden of all the worry the child should carry, in addition to their own. Maybe it is this mechanism which causes the transference of anxiety; a filial inheritance of fear, a frightened nature we can't help but nurture.

In a sense it is concern with the future that causes worry. A preoccupation with the past can cause this too - when one ruminates on failures and lost opportunities - but more often than not it is a looking out into the field, surveying the horizon for telltale signs of disaster that fills us with the most dread. One must have a keen foresight to plan for (and prevent) catastrophe often and early. Parents are good at this. The recognition of any and all potential pitfalls is an essential ingredient for protection. They would tell you one must anticipate tragedy to avert it. But what of the tragedies that do not come? What about the psychological havoc wrought by living in such a state of fear?

Fear is always all around us, I find, and in ever increasing proportions as we age. We can feel it as we struggle toward a palsied and terrified version of our old selves; hairs dead and gone or white with worry, waves of wrinkles washed over loose, sagging skin, hands that won't stop shaking, cramped and aching muscles stretched over crooked skeletons twisted and hobbled by time.

That got dark. I guess I needed to balance out the sun a little bit. Just a smidgen.

Smidgen.

Rhymes with pigeon.

Twinkle Twinkle

Two stars were gliding near each other in space. It was dark and cold and the nearest big star was on the furthest edge of the galaxy. They'd come here a lot after they'd met, to spend time together. Stars do this often, for companionship. Planets do, too. It's why they travel in packs, why they try to hold onto their moons. But time is different for a star. To meet they'd have to plan for it 60 years in advance, because that's how long it would take them to orbit back around. They'd look forward to it for 59 years, which wasn't that long for stars.

"Hey, so nice to see you again," one star said to the other.

"I know, it has been too long."

"How have you been, you must tell me about your orbit," the one star said.

"Oh, same crap different orbit," the other replied.

"Yes," the one star said, laughing, "I often feel so bored."

"Tell me about it," said the other. "Wouldn't it be nice if we could change orbits whenever we wanted?"

"Or if we could just stop moving for once," the one added.

"Yes, yes, that would be lovely."

"Say, I forgot to mention it: the boys on the Gnalyor comet swung by for a quick hello as I was passing Jajalbunn, probably about 20 years ago. They give you their best," said the one.

"Oh, they always were a hoot! I remember when we first met them, it must have been about 10,000 years ago, near Vrenmarr."

"Ah, yes, Vrenmarr. That was quite the coincidence, all of us meeting there. I remember it well. There was an eclipse that night, do you recall?"

"And we had only just met, maybe 1,500 years before that," said the other.

"But was there an eclipse, or am I mistaken?"

"No, no, there was an eclipse, a lunar eclipse if I recall."

"Yes, I thought so. It was spectacularly crimson, as though the whole face of the moon were blushing."

"It was radiant," the other said.

As the two stars exchanged stories and got reacquainted, gas nebulas bloomed up around them like spiderwebs dusted with opal. Somewhere further off, planets were being born. And further still, on the edge of the universe, planets were being swallowed. The whole universe was stretching and contracting and shimmering and blinking and melting and freezing all at once. It was chaos, complete madness, save for these two stars.

"I hear that this orbit you're to cross paths with Jeffrey," said the one.

The other said nothing.

"I was wondering, you aren't still seeing each other, are you?"

"Oh Charles, that's such a silly question. I told you, you've nothing to worry about."

"Then tell me again I have nothing to worry about, Dorothea."

"Please stop," she said, laughing nervously, "I haven't seen him in ages."

Space can be very quiet when no one is speaking, which is odd, considering how everything is moving so quickly. It can be so quiet that the silence seems to seep inward, filling one with a lonely, vacuous hollow that stings and numbs the way frostbite does. Charles' ears, if he'd had ears, were as mute as his mouth; if he had a mouth. He'd loved Dorothea, dearly. Every night he would peer out into the dense cluster of stars suspended in space and search for her distinctive twinkle. Then, when he'd find it, he'd figure out how long it would be until he'd see her, right down to the day. Which was impressive, for a star. He was entangled in her, almost quantumly; in a way that he wished she was for him.

"I just wish you loved me like I love you," he thought to himself.

If he'd only realized the profound irony of a star wishing on a star.