photo DSCF3169_zpsa723161f.jpg


Ein schwerer Traum.
  Startseite
  Über...
  Archiv
  Chlorophyll
  Papier
  Holz
  Stein
  Eisen
  Baumwolle
  Porzellanscherben
  Wachs
  Pudding
  Lena
  Du zögerst?
  Porzellan
  Kontakt
 

  Abonnieren
 


 



https://myblog.de/eeroismus

Gratis bloggen bei
myblog.de





 


Das Auto ist doch schon da. Fein, fein.




Weniger fein war das Gespr?ch mit Herr Albert. Er macht sich Sorgen und meine Kleidung ist ungew?hnlich (...warum?) und was um Gottes Willen soll nun aus meiner Zukunft werden?! Und er erz?hlte von Jugend WG's und davon, dass es sowas geben sollte. Und ich sagte ihm, dass die existieren und da war er noch begeisterter. Weil die Kinder doch von ihren Eltern wegm?ssten um auf eigenen Beinen stehen zu k?nnen. Damit sie ihren eigenen Weg finden k?nnen.
Ich wollte, dass er den Mund h?lt. Weil er nichts wei? von mir von allem und von dem, was passiert. Weil er nicht so ist, wie ich bin und weil er nichts nachvollziehen kann von dem, was ich tue. Weil man Ahnung haben muss, wenn man etwas vorschl?gt. Weil man nicht einfach daherreden kann. Weil man nicht von Themen reden kann, von denen man nichts versteht. Weil er lieber still sein sollte. Und weil er in seinem Alter gelernt haben m?sste, wie man schweigt.

In der Hand hatte ich ein Messer. Schlie?lich schnitzte ich F?rmchen f?r weitere 24 Kerzen heute. Damit dr?ckte ich auf meine Haut, bis ich ihn nicht mehr h?ren konnte, weil da etwas fiepte in meinem Kopf. Das Messer war stumpf. Ich h?tte auch nicht gewusst, wie ich es ihm erkl?ren sollte.

Denn ich sagte nichts, die ganze Zeit nicht und l?chelte, als w?re heut ein sch?ner Tag. Nach 20 Minuten bemerkte er, dass er aufh?ren sollte zu reden, entschuldigte sich und zog von dannen mit der Fahne auf Halbmast.

Und ich wollte weinen, weil es mir doch noch nicht so egal ist, dass die Leute dumm sind und ignorant und alle das gleiche sagen.


~...tr?r? t?tter?t?...~
1.12.05 17:57




Achja. Ich soll eine Kurzgeschichte schreiben. Das ist sozusagen meine Hausaufgabe.
Das Schlagwort ist: Gurke.

Ja, ganz richtig. Gurke. *nick* Gurke.

G
U
R
K
E

oder r?ckw?rts: Ekrug

oder die Buchstaben nach dem Alphabet geordnet: Egkru

oder auf englisch: cucumber (Vokabeln hab ich nie gelernt. Ich h?r das Wort zum ersten Mal...)

oder verniedlicht: G?rkchen



Haha. (Und das soll was werden...?)


~...can't face the shame...~
1.12.05 22:14




Wegen der Vollst?ndigkeit, weil die ja so wichtig ist im Leben, sieht die Schei? Navileiste etwas voll aus jetzt. Gef?llt mir so gar nicht... Sieht aus, als g?b's hier richtig was zu lesen. *lol*

Ach, ich mach mir Gedanken wegen der Gurke. Ich muss das bald machen, je l?nger ich das aufschiebe, desto unwahrscheinlicher ist es, dass mir was einf?llt. Hmm...



~...I have to find you...~
2.12.05 15:12


Man k?nnte den ganzen Tag die Lichterketten anlassen, so finster ist es.
Wieso regnet das ?berhaupt?!
Wer hat das veranlasst?

Petrus?!

Du Sack! Ja, bist du denn dumm?
Es ist Winter.

Winter hei?t kalt hei?t Schnee, okay?






Mit dem aufr?umen komm ich nicht hinterher, mit dem schreiben erst recht nicht, schlafen kann ich nicht und schlecht ist mir auch noch.

Und seit drei Stunden jetzt English Summer Rain.



~...start again, start again...~
3.12.05 14:46




Wirbelsturm im Kopf.
Ich krieg Ordnung ins Zimmer, aber nicht in meine Schei? Gedanken.


Irgendwie ist alles gleich, nur dieses Gef?hl im Hintergrund ist anders. Ich kann es nicht beschreiben. Morgen ist dann eh alles wieder normal.


~...f?r dich mein Herz...~
3.12.05 20:26




And because you?ll realise, that you never knew me.


You have always been pretty, but I made you beautiful.


3.12.05 20:39




Der Tag ist bereits 170 Stunden lang...





~...my God what have we done to you...~
4.12.05 16:39




It was complete true when I said you were beautiful, and no lies have smeared the purity of every single "I love you" that has escaped my lips. But honey, when I told you it is okay if you didn't say those three little words right back--that was a lie.
4.12.05 20:42





Die letzten N?chte habe ich kaum geschlafen. Deswegen war ich reichlich froh, dass es heute geklappt hatte. Und ich hatte auch keinen Grund zeitig aufzustehen. Also blieb ich liegen.
Dann bin ich Z?hne putzen gegangen. Und im n?chsten Moment werde ich beschimpft und niedergemacht und beleidigt. Einfach mal so. Weil dem Herren danach war. Weil er frustriert war und sich selbst nicht mehr leiden kann und nichts mehr auf die Reihe kriegt.

Ich will mich ja auch gar nicht beschweren. Nein, nein. Daf?r bin ich schlie?lich da. Nech?! Daf?r ist das Weib schlie?lich noch zu Hause.

Vielleicht werde ich krank. Von zwei Stunden drau?en rumstehen. Ohne Jacke (aber was macht das schon!). Vielleicht aber auch nicht. Und es ist der Welt v?llig egal. Ja, das ist es. Und mir auch. Mir ist alles egal. Deswegen heule ich auch nicht.

Mir knurrt der Magen, weil ich seit gestern Nachmittag nichts mehr gegessen habe. Aber auch das ist egal. Denn wer bin ich, dass ich jetzt rausgehe. Jetzt, nachdem er so viel Zeit hatte sich neue Beleidigungen (oder noch schlimmer: eine Entschuldigung) einfallen zu lassen. Nee, nee, nee.

Morgen werde ich auf Arbeit laufen. Und hoffentlich schneit es und ist eiskalt. Damit er Schuldgef?hle kriegt. (Wenn es sowas gibt in seiner kleinen Welt.)


Hey, ich schei? auf dich! Ich schei? auf dich. (Am Ende kann ich mich ja immer noch umbringen.)


~...if only I could walk...~
5.12.05 17:34




?I love you and I?ll say it 100 more times. I love you.?

He shook his head again and got out of the car.

?No you don?t.? He said, closing the door and turning his back to the car.
5.12.05 18:56



Bla bla bla bla bla bla.

Ist klar, glaub ich.


Ich hab heut nicht viel geredet oder gegessen oder getrunken. Daf?r aber viel rumgelegen und rumgesessen und geglotzt. Und alles war ein bisschen wie fr?her.
Nur ohne Blut.



Da war eine ?berlegung wegen der Schule. Abendschule. Und ich MUSS dar?ber nachdenken, sagt man mir. Ich MUSS. Ich hasse Dinge, die ich MUSS. Meistens tue ich Dinge nicht, die ich tun MUSS. Aber hier MUSS ich wohl wirklich. (Das ist nicht so witzig, wie es r?berkommt.)
Tja. Da gibt es keine Sophie im Klassenraum gegen?ber. Und kein Nino drei Reihen hinter mir. Keine Sabine. Nicht mal eine Katrin oder ein David oder eine Maria.
Ehrlich gesagt, wei? ich nicht, wie ich das jemals schaffen soll. Ich kann nicht alleine sein. Und wenn die alle ?lter sind und nur an ihren Abschluss denken und mich nicht mal ansehen, wei? ich nicht, wie lange ich es aushalte ohne zu weinen.
Und das macht doch alles nur noch schlimmer...
Ich wei? wirklich nicht, wie ich das schaffen soll.


~...what it feels like for a...~
5.12.05 23:29




Das ist so eine Art Geschichte, bei der ich mich als Hauptperson f?hle. Mittendrin ab sp?testens der dritten Zeile. Und wenn ich bis zu Ende gelesen habe, halte ich inne und denke mir: 'Man, so muss man schreiben. So muss man schreiben.'



At one o'clock, Mikey sat on his bed, messy and unmade, turned on his stereo, and smiled. He was tired, tired in a lazy way, and glad to be alone. He was tired because, the night before, he'd gone out to a party that he hadn't wanted to attend, and he'd stayed later then he'd wanted to stay, and he'd gotten far, far more drunk then he'd wanted to get. His father had woken him up briskly at eight, because their arrangement was that Mikey got to use the car and got a meager stipend of twenty five dollars a week if he performed certain menial chores around the house. Saturday morning was always the day to mow the lawn.

He thought about taking a shower, but then decided that even that, even something so easy, was too much effort. It was spring, at last spring, and the sky was blue and the sun was bright and the air was cool, and he felt that he needed to give his heart a chance to air out, just as his mother was airing out the sheets and bedding. It had been a long winter, a cold winter, and he felt as though it were time to push up through the soil and burst into flower.

He laid still on his bed, on his back, with his hands behind his head, glasses off so he couldn't really see, singing along silently. It made him feel jubilant. It made him feel grand. He felt like life might not ever be so nice again, as it was then, in his squalid bedroom singing along to gleeful music that nobody else liked. If nobody else were home, well then he might lift his voice and sing loudly as he could, until the vocals of the song were eclipsed and it all started to sound miserable.

Somebody knocked lightly on his doorframe, and he looked up to see his brother in the doorway.

"What?" he asked, a little rude, but not as rude as he wanted to be.

"I'm going downtown to see that movie I told you about at that cool theatre on High Street," he said, sounding excited. "Do you want to come?"

Mikey sat up, lazily, and said, "What movie?" He knew, really, what his brother was talking about, but he was in a contrary mood and not pleased at having been disturbed.

"That movie," Gerard said. "We talked about it yesterday. You remember." He crossed his arms and looked a little upset. Mikey thought that maybe it was a terrible idea that Gerard hadn't moved away to go to college. He saved a lot of money by commuting, but he still was forced to pal around with his kid brother, or else have no friends at all.

"Oh yeah," Mikey said. "I guess I do remember." He rolled his neck and it cracked loudly. His brother winced. "It's supposed to be really good?"

"Definitely," Gerard said. "It's supposed to be great. I'm excited."

"Oh," said Mikey. "Well." He looked away towards the window, unwilling to go but hesitant to say that he had no desire to.

Gerard came and sat down next to him on the bed, and he laid down his sketchbook, which he'd been carrying with him. He flopped backwards and groaned a little, as though it were all too much for him to bear. Mikey picked the sketchbook up and rifled through the pages. Once upon a time, he'd loved to see what Gerard had drawn, and he craved the privilege of being allowed to watch a drawing in progress. But now all his brother's characters seemed sad and the same, mostly, and Mikey sometimes thought that maybe all this college wasn't teaching him anything.

Still, it was interesting to look and to see that his brother thought the world was such a bloody place. Mikey tried to think like that once upon a time, tried to pretend that he thought there were so many ghouls too, but it just didn't work. Maybe it was because his hair was blond, but his disposition was just too sunny. He tried to be glum, but he never felt anything quite poignantly enough, and perhaps that was his true failing.

He hadn't looked at Gerard's sketchbooks in a long while, and few of the images satisfied him. He remembered that once he had been obsessed with his brother. Once he had adored him, but now they were both older and they had grown apart, and Gerard seemed a burden, almost. Besides, he smelled like cigarette smoke and that did aggravate Mikey's asthma.

At length, Gerard said, "What are you listening to?" He sounded a little astonished, like he had never imagined any such music.

"Oh, nothing," Mikey said. He ran his hand across his chest and thought about coughing. "You know what? I think I'm going to pass on that movie."

Gerard looked a little sad, at that, but Mikey closed his eyes and didn't even watch as he walked away.

-----

At four o'clock Mikey sat down on one of the rickety swings at the playground and dragged his feet in the sand. It was still light out, full broad afternoon, and he was pleased. It was not really warm, but not cool either, and that sort of weather suited him.

Frank was tearing up a piece of paper that had been in his pocket and letting the pieces drop to the ground. The wind tumbled them a few yards away before they got caught up in the unkempt grass. Mikey almost felt like saying something, telling him not to litter because it was rude and wrong, but such a message seemed too didactic and terrible, and he couldn't bring himself to care.

"So," said Frank.

Mikey did not respond. He was digging a shallow hole in the coarse sand with the toe of his right foot. The sand was moist and had turned the toe of his sneaker orange, and he thought miserably that he would have to wash them soon.

Frank came and sat down on the swing next to Mikey, but because it was higher and he so much shorter his feet just barely brushed the ground.

"So," he said again, but this time he continued. "What do you think?"

Mikey didn't give him the satisfaction of looking up, but rather leaned backwards, so that the blood rushed to his head and his hair brushed the dirt and his shirt rode up and his stomach was bare. His glasses tumbled off and fell to the ground, and he had to get off the swing and retrieve them.

Safely back on, he said, "I don't know."

"Oh," said Frank, sounding deflated. "Oh. I thought..."

Mikey didn't know what to say, because he didn't want to make the situation worse. "It was fun," he said, at length, and his voice cracked and he cursed puberty for making him sound so squeaky still, at age seventeen and three fifths.

"Mikey," Frank said, warningly. "You know that's not all that it meant." He sounded urgent and his voice took on the strangely unreal tone, as it always did when he was confronted with an unusually dramatic situation and decided to take his cue from films or television programs.

Mikey sighed. He tried, awkwardly, to hook his leg around Frank's and pull him close, but failed and instead reached out with his hand and pulled the two swings together. It was a strange and uncomfortable position but even still Frank leaned over and kissed him, wet tongue and soft lips, until Mikey, growing impatient, let go of the other swing and they swung lazily apart.

"Jesus Christ, Mikey!" Frank exclaimed. He sounded a little disgusted.

Mikey leaned over and coughed, feeling something raw and sharp scrape low in his chest. Perhaps, with these longer warmer days coming, his allergies were starting earlier this year then they usually did. Perhaps it would not be long until all the trees were adorned with soft new emerald growth, and the flowers were in first bloom. He coughed until his back hurt and then sat up, even though the scratch was not gone.

"Mikey," Frank said. He sounded sincere. "Mikey, you know I really like you." The sentiment was so mawkish Mikey had to resist the urge to gag. "I just don't understand why it always has to mean nothing."

Mikey looked up at the sky, and hummed a bar of that song he'd had on earlier, and smiled. He didn't really know either.

Frank, all hangdog, looked at him and seemed close to tears or hysteria. From his pocket he took a cigarette and a lighter and he turned away as he lit the cigarette but Mikey heard the click of the lighter, and it was almost like he felt the flame and that same smoke.

"Listen," he said. "I gotta get going, Frank." From the pocket of his jean jacket he produced a cassette tape. It wasn't labeled at all. "I made this for you," he said, and he handed it to Frank. "I'll see you later, then."

He walked away down the street towards his house and did not look back even once.

-----

At seven o'clock, Mikey sat down at the dinner table with his mother and his father and his older brother. Saturday was the only day of the whole week they ate dinner together because his mother worked the late shift at the diner most other days, and their father sometimes had to stay late at work too. But Saturday, no matter what, they ate together as, Mikey supposed, any other family might.

Gerard, since going to college, had become a vegetarian, much to their parents' ire. He didn't any meat or any eggs, which left him with surprisingly few options. Mikey thought about being a vegetarian too, but it seemed like too much work and he had none of Gerard's conviction.

Their mother served them a soupy looking casserole she had made, and Mikey thought that just the sight of it was enough to make his appetite disappear. She was not what one could call an accomplished cook. Most of what she considered cooking involved opening cans or boxes and pouring the contents into the appropriate pot or dish.

Their father said grace and in silence they began eating, or in Mikey's case slowly sipping a glass of water and moving his food around his place. Shortly, he guessed, his mother would chide him, because she said that he never ate properly and was far too thin. He didn't have the heart to tell her that he couldn't stomach the majority of her cuisine.

"So how was that movie?" their mother asked Gerard.

"Great," he said. "It was really good." There was a spot of something on his chin, and Mikey had the strongest urge to reach across the table and wipe it off.

"Good," their mother said. Mikey guessed that Gerard must have borrowed her car. He had his own that he bought with the money from working at the comic book store all through high school, but he had to sell it when he decided to go to college because he hardly ever used it and couldn't afford the insurance.

"You should have come, Mikey," he said. "You really would have liked it." He didn't sound angry, just upset maybe because he thought that Mikey really would enjoy the film.

"Oh, I guess," said Mikey. "Maybe next time." He violently buttered one of the burnt little dinner rolls his mother had popped out of their cardboard container and then baked.

"It was a good movie," Gerard said. "It was right up your alley."

Mikey sighed and thought that maybe he didn't have an alley. After a moment, he pushed his chair away from the table and asked permission to go upstairs and lie down, because his head ached and he thought his allergies might be acting up. His mother fretted and made him take an aspirin, but she let him go. He paused on the stairs and listened, and he could hear his family talking quietly at the table, but he just pinched the bridge of his nose to stem the pain and went up to his dark bedroom.

-----

At ten o'clock, Mikey sat on his floor with his back against the wall and his telephone in his lap. Frank had called him and he was on the phone now, still, listening to him plead and reason.

"Mikey," he kept saying. "You have to understand. I love you, Mikey."

Mikey mostly just kept quiet and studied the shadows that the streetlights cast on his wall. His door was closed but he could hear his brother in the next room, playing music quite loudly for this hour of the night. That scratch in his chest was back, that little burr, and he kept coughing to make it go away. It wouldn't budge, though.

"Mikey," Frank said. He sounded shrill and Mikey thought maybe he was drunk. He couldn't tell over the phone but he knew Frank well and it was likely. "Why did you let me kiss you if you didn't care?" he asked, sounding pathetic.

Mikey sighed and said, "I didn't think that kissing meant caring, Frank."

Frank let out a little noise that was like a whimper.

Mikey rubbed his chest, because the dryness and the pain were worse, right under his ribcage.

"You're such a fucking psycho, Mikey," said Frank.

Mikey closed his eyes and coughed.

"You're crazy. You're like, a fucking robot," said Frank, growing hysterical. "Don't you care?" he asked.

Mikey stilled his wretched hacking, and replied, "You haven't been listening, Frank. I don't love anyone."

He hung up the phone before he could hear what came next.

-----

At one o'clock, Mikey snuck into his brother's room and stole one of the cigarettes from the pack that was always in Gerard's back pocket. His jeans had been tossed messily on the floor, so it wasn't hard. The whole house was still, sleeping, and Mikey slunk back to his own room and sat down at his desk. Because he didn't do homework often and didn't have a particular talent or hobby that would require him to use it, the desk was neat and hardly touched from the last time he'd cleaned it out and organized it all. The same song, the song from the afternoon, was still playing, but the volume was at the lowest level now, so it was just audible.

He had a lighter that he kept in his desk draw but he never used it. He took it out now, and tested the flame. It glowed nice and bright above his pale hand. He took his stolen cigarette and held the end in the flame until it was lit. Then he brought it to his lips and inhaled deeply, drawing in the harsh smoke. It was like his whole body was a desert and that smoke dried it out even more, made every last thing die.

He had never smoked before, because of the asthma and his weak lungs, and it burned. It burned, and he coughed and coughed until his throat hurt and his back hurt. The cigarette burned away lazily, sending up a tiny graceful ribbon of smoke, but Mikey didn't notice it. He was coughing still as he stubbed it out in an almost empty can of soda, and even with the smoke gone his lungs felt withered and his chest felt barren. Wracked by spasms, he collapsed on his bed, and hoped he wouldn't need his inhaler. He coughed until his eyes watered and his limbs grew weak and his body stilled, and in that way, he fell fast asleep.


~...was dich zu dem macht was du bist...~
6.12.05 00:55




He rolled over onto his side, grabbing a pillow to cover his ears with. It didn?t help, true, but he liked to think it did.


Oh man, hab ich schlecht geschlafen. Um halb sieben wurde es pl?tzlich warm im Zimmer (W?rme steigt nach oben, ?brigens.), weil ich vergessen hatte die Heizung runterzudrehen. Aber ich war so, so, sooo m?de und kaputt, dass ich es nicht fertig gebracht habe den Kopf zu heben -geschweige denn mich die Leiter runterzuwuchten. Also hab ich die Decke einfach weggestrampelt. Das ging gut f?r 10 Minuten. Dann hab ich gezittert und gefroren gleichzeitig. Die F??e waren Eisklumpen, der R?cken auch und mein Kopf war eine dampfende Kartoffel. Und halb acht hat sich Paps in der K?che ein S?ppchen gekocht. Das kann man nicht leise machen. Nein, kann man nicht. 'Erbsen, Bohnen, Linsen - bringen den Arsch zum grinsen.' Das wollte ich um die Zeit wissen... Naja. Kurz nach acht bin ich in den tiefsten Schlaf gefallen. Bis... D?d?d?d?d?d?d?... (Nicht etwa Piep, piep, piep... Neeeee. Das war ein Maschinengewehr!! Genau an meinem rechten Ohr. Der Wecker h?tte sogar Dornr?schen aus ihrem verkackten Schlaf gerissen!)
Auf dem Weg das Dorf hoch hatte ich meine fesche M?tze verkehrt herum auf dem Kopf.
Und ich musste heute nur bl?de Texte abtippen. Ich hasse diesen riesengro?en Bildschirm. Der ist grausam. Meine armen Augen. Ich sa? da also, so weit wie m?glich weg von dem Ding (musste ja aber noch an die Tastatur kommen und die W?rter auf den Bl?ttern entziffern k?nnen) und nach zwei Stunden tat mir davon so derma?en der R?cken weh... das fand der nach Zigaretten duftende Ahnenforschermann ?u?erst am?sant. Sau.

Achja, meine Kerzen sind weggegangen wie nichts. Eine hat sich Herr Albert selbst gekrallt. Die mit den rosa Sternchen. O.o


~...we gotta say we're in love...~
6.12.05 16:21




Sabine hat mir geschrieben. Ein sehr lieber Brief.
Als ich ihn gelesen habe, f?hlte ich mich ein bisschen erb?rmlich. Weil ich so viele schlechte Dinge denke.

Manchmal w?nsche ich mir naiver zu sein. Ein bisschen von dem, was ich nicht bin.

(Aber meistens w?nsche ich es mir nicht.)


~...Maybe they kiss. Maybe they don't...~
6.12.05 17:10




Porzellan ist zu Ende.


Daran hab ich Monate gesessen und jetzt bin ich trotzdem nicht erleichtert. Da wird mir was fehlen. (Und ich habe Viktor nicht genug weinen lassen. Das h?tte er noch viel mehr tun sollen... aber dann h?tte es mich genervt. Bla bla. Ist alles gut so, wie es ist.)

Herr Tylla w?rde jetzt sagen: "Gut geschrieben. Aber ich verstehe das alles nicht."



~...im edlen Design...~
6.12.05 19:14



Knapp 5 Seiten in Word. ... Aber es muss hier hin.

Ich liebe es.



Vanity, Vanity

There is a mark low on his stomach, a red mark, marring. Frank is sleeping, and the lamp on the desk is turned low, but Mikey can't look away from that dark scar. Maybe it is a burn. Maybe a cut. Maybe something that was always there and stretched and grew more awful and rough and ruddy as Frank got older. It's always been there but never before has it seemed so much like a cancer, malignant.
Mikey has no scars. There are freckles on his shoulders and a perfectly round black birthmark on the inside of his lower arm, but he has no scars. He is not tattooed and he is not pierced. His skin is whole and wholesome and unmarked. The sheets are white and they are just a little lighter than the skin of his belly. The sheets are not half as soft as that skin though. His arms are darker, taupe or tan or something like that, sizzled seasoned by the sun and the light and he doesn't love that but there's nothing he can do. The smell of suntan lotion makes him sick.
He should himself be asleep now; he should not be awake so late. But lately he's been drinking too much coffee. It makes his hands tremble and it keeps his mind awake even when his body is softly sunken into the warm soupy morass of bed and boyfriend. He moves his left leg just to make sure he still can, just to check that his mind and his body are still all integral and whole. The sheets slide against each other, rustling and speaking in the tongue of thread and Mikey wishes he knew what they are saying.
His fingers sneak, snakelike, over the duvet, the stiff floral hotel bedding that any other number of bodies have lain beneath. Frank is shirtless and sprawled on his back, expansive in sleep as he is compacted in waking. He says that sleeping beneath the sheets makes him feel claustrophobic so he doesn't usually. He says Mikey keeps him warm enough and when they're falling asleep together Frank will press his body against Mikey's and rest his head on Mikey's shoulder and make small sweet noises, falling asleep noises, the precursor to the breathy rush of his nighttime mumbling. Even talking in his sleep is endearing.
Frank's hipbones are long and hard; they jut from beneath his skin and stretch it tight and fair. His body is very nice this days, very smooth and slender and pretty, and Mikey appreciates that but it galls him to think that Frankie didn't do it for him. He doesn't like the tattoos. Mikey never has. He hates them and sometimes when they're sitting together watching television or on the bus he'll rub the inside of Frank's arm to see if maybe the tattoos will wear away. They never do and Frank just thinks it's sweet, gentle soothing affection.
The scar is low on Frank's belly. It's kind of invisible even if he's wearing a tiny shirt that rides up and exposes a velvet swath of skin. Maybe nobody else has ever seen it before. Mikey doesn't know because Frank doesn't talk about it but it could be. Might very well be. They've been together for such a long time that he can't remember what sort of boyfriends Frank had before. Maybe none. Maybe girls. It was a long time ago and Frank wasn't so beautiful then and he wasn't so famous and people ignored him rather a lot of the time.
Mikey thinks that might have left some scar, some kind of wound on Frank's poor heart, fragile and needy and tender. He's so happy now but he was so unhappy then that a change of heart so monumental can't possibly be normal. Mikey wasn't so happy then and he's not so happy now but consistency is better than extremity. He knows this and he's always known it and that's why everyone envies him so. Nothing bothers him but he doesn't care about any of it.
Maybe Frank, though. He might care about Frank, circumstances permitting.
The scar is uneven beneath the cushioned tips of his fingers, bumpy poorly healed flesh. It is strangely rubbery, for flesh. It feels fake or maybe like one of those scars that you can buy at costume shops that adhere to clean whole flesh with adhesive. If he did not think it would wake Frank Mikey would try to dig his thumbnail under that scar and pry it off because he knows there must be good skin underneath. But there would be blood maybe and pain and Frank does not deserve that.
His mind is racing and he is thinking about the other bed, the empty bed. If he moved to that other empty bed (the bed he's supposed to be sleeping it) he would be far away from that scar, feet and feet of carpeted floor between him and it. He's not sure his body would consent to such a move, such an awful abrupt uprooting to some cold hard place, far away from the pretty affectionate body next to him. And then, that bed is made so nicely, so perfect with the sheets crisp and the covers smooth and everything untouched by the filth of sweat and skin and stink.
Frank curls up on his side and slides his hand over Mikey's waist. His body is shadowy in the darkness, and smooth and taut and pretty. Mikey shuts his eyes and smooths his palm over Frank's back, between his shoulder blades, and he tries to count the little bumps of his spine. The skin there is white, perfectly, white and unmarred and it is fine for his hand to touch that flesh. It doesn't make him think about fake and plastic and Halloween costumes. Still, the scar on Frank's belly is there and Mikey cannot see it but he imagines that he can feel it against his thigh, and even as Frank exhales moist against his chest, little soft puffs of air, of sleeping breath, he pulls away, weak and supine, bodily ineffective against the surprising strength of Frank's arm draped over his side, and he pulls and frets and distances himself from that scar until he is exhausted and spent, slips into sleep.
-----
Very often when they are in New York or another large city and they are walking down the street Mikey will see someone and he will be unable to look away, and his gaze will follow them for as long as it can, until they disappear around a corner or are swallowed up by the crowds. Today they are sitting in a diner, a small cramped deliciously New York establishment, sipping coffee and trying to outlast the pains and tremors of last night's alcoholic binge.
Gerard is with them although he did not drink last night. He says he is sober and he mostly is but not always. But last night he was, and it's good for him and he looks better lately, not so sick, so Mikey leaves him alone in his little fit of moral fortitude. One day he'll fuck up and not be able to pretend any longer and then the facade of sobriety will fall and that will be okay too. They went to some comic book store earlier and Gerard is thumbing excitedly through some kind of pretty book of pictures or another.
Mikey drinks his coffee black. Black and cold, if they have it, but never with ice. That dulls the acidic burn that he likes so much. Gerard takes his with a little milk and a little sugar, average and bland. Frank doesn't drink coffee. They ordered food, but only Frank is really eating. Gerard ... well, Gerard doesn't always eat much these days and Mikey doesn't know what to make of that but he doesn't question it. It's not his place to question it. Mikey ordered some toast out of obligation but it's burnt and he imagines it would be as dry as sawdust in his throat. Frank is eating cereal and it is sugary and the milk has turned pink from all the food coloring, but he likes things like that.
They are all very quiet this morning. Ray and Bob declined the breakfast invitation and are back at the hotel, sleeping, and Mikey envies them. He wishes he could sleep. Lately, his nights have been filled with restless turning and shadowy light.
There are so many old women, and Mikey looks at them all. Why he would expect anything else on a Sunday morning in a diner in New York City he isn't sure, but he is glad because he likes to study old faces, faces whose skin is stretched and rumpled and mottled. The topography of wrinkles and creases is fascinating in a way that smooth youth will never be, and the old women always wear makeup that makes it better yet. Big crimson lips, painted on, too wide and messy, drawn with shaking rheumatic hands and eyebrows that disappear into wispy receding hairlines and virulent blue and green eyeshadow that gets caught in the recesses on those wrinkles lids.
Sometimes he wishes he were an artist, like his brother, so he could draw old women like this and save their beauty on a piece of paper because nobody ever likes anything so hideous. Nobody else understands why it's so beautiful.
Frank sighs and taps his spoon against the lip of the bowl, empty now but for the dregs. He is antsy and weary, and after so long Mikey is not surprised that he can feel it. They know each other well, know each other surface and innards and all other parts. Maybe when they slink back to the hotel, Frank will dress in some soft bedclothes and, docile as an infant, fall asleep with his head in Mikey's lap while they watch old movies on television. Last night, nobody slept.
The waitress comes and gives them the bill. Gerard looks up from his comic book and appropriates it, feeling, Mikey supposes, that as the oldest it his is due. As he rifles through his wallet Mikey can't help but noticing that his wrists and hands look thin and pale and like they would be easily bruised. He sometimes wishes that he had the gall to ask questions that need asking because he is curious and unsure but he suspects. Mikey always suspects something or another.
As they are standing up and leaving and putting on coats and scarves and hats (it is March but in New York it is snowing and the streets and sidewalks are laminated in ice) the door opens and a woman, a nun, dressed in her habit, shuffles in. At first he cannot see her. Her face is shadowed by the fall of cloth that covers her hair. But then she turns towards him the galvanizing florescent light falls across her face and he stares and he stares and he cannot look away.
There is something awful there, not a human maybe but something like one dressed up as a woman devoted to good service in the name of the christian god. One eye is good and whole and shines out from the wreckage of a awful visage. The other is gone, just a hallow covered in reddened skin and bumpy, chemical burns and cancers and leprosy and scarring. The nose is huge and bulbous and viens thread blue and shiny across its surface. All her skin shines like with sweat but he thinks that's just the natural state of whatever made her look like this. Glasses, dark rimmed and thick, perch on that slab of a nose and totter as she hobbles towards a booth in the back of the restaurant. He is staring at her and she knows it and he cannot look away.
The mouth, the gaping mouth, is just a slit in an unshapen mass of skin and bone, no lips, no shape, just a hole. Her whole body is swathed in black but he thinks that the rest of it must be as bad, must be as ruptured and warped. And how is it that she has lasted so long? And how is it that she has not withered under the stares of people who like Mikey are mesmerized by the awful ruined body she hides under that black heavy habit? And why is it that his eye finds such imperfections so easily? Why is it that he cannot let them pass without wondering how such things came into being? He trembles to think that all his life he will be looking for deformity.
Gerard elbows him in the ribs then and he winces in pain. Frank takes his arm and drags him away, forcibly. They've been waiting.
"Don't be rude!" Frank admonishes, and Mikey thinks if he could, he would make a donation to that old woman and sit and listen to her talk. Frank would not mind her awfulness. He tries and he tries to resist but he cannot and just as they are walking out into the cold white snowstorm he turns and he looks for her again, but her back is to him now and all he sees is the black cloth of her garb.
-----
Standing before the mirror in the bathroom backstage at some crumby venue, Mikey regards his reflection and scowls. His hair looks lank and oily, but he's just showered. His skin looks mottled and his pores large. His eyes are dull, his clothing wrinkled. They're going on stage in forty five minutes and he'd like to shower again before then but he knows he won't have time. Maybe enough time in hot scalding water and he'd emerge all vigorous and wet and new, unsullied. Probably not, he thinks, but he can't think of anything else.
Warily he eyes his reflection, challenging it to make him look worse yet in his own eyes. He might fix his hair now, comb it and fix it into place with hairspray, but his asthma has been acting up and he knows that so much aerosole spray would set him off and he'd end up coughing and coughing until his throat was raw bloody and his voice gone.
It galls him even more because Frank looks great tonight, perfect, even wearing silly makeup. His skin shines and his hair is glossy and dark, freshly dyed, and he looks fit and well and wonderful. Some nights he thinks he's too good for Frank, thinks he could do better, and he knows he could, maybe, but then there are days like this and he can't imagine why Frank wastes his time, can't imagine why he still hangs around, except he knows that apathy makes it hard to do anything else, of course.
He sulks and flops onto the couch, toying with the hem of his tee shirt. Frank is next to him on the phone, laughing as he talks to someone, and, duplitious, Mikey listens and tries to figure out who it is he's speaking to. The conversation is vague and Frank expansive and Mikey cannot figure it out and he crosses his arms over his chest and glowers at himself in the mirror until he feels a soft hand on his shoulder and he looks up and finds Frank staring at him.
"Stop looking at yourself," he says, his voice low and seductive, and when Frank's lips press against Mikey's jaw, he looks away.
-----
Mikey has the flu and he is swaddled in blankets and sweltering and feels like he might die. Or perhaps it is that he has already died and because he is an awful person he has been sent here, to hell, to sweat beneath leaden blankets forever. His head aches and his body and joints creak with the weariness of inertia. There are soap operas on the television and the radio in the other room is set to some station that, during the day, plays smarmy lite rock interpersed with the meandering pratter of a brassy voiced, pretty faced jockey.
He is not tired, and he is very miserable, but perhaps his misery and his apathy are more tiring that he realizes. He must doze, because when his eyes flutter shut and when he opens them again Frank is standing at his bedside bearing a tray ladden with good and wholesome things to eat, things that smell wonderful and pique Mikey's appetite despite the fact that his stomach has been churning.
Frank helps him sit up and settles the tray on his lap and the food is all so good that Mikey is astonished to find that his hunger has returned with a vengence. It's all good and Frank made it all himself, handmade, time spent sweating in a tiny cramped kitchen and it couldn't have been fun, couldn't have been any fun at all but he did it. And Mikey is ashamed that he's savouring such food made expressly for him in his illness and weakness when he's such an ungrateful awful person.
He ducks his head when Frank kisses his cheek and mumbles, "Thank you."
Frank clucks and replies," It was nothing. I love you."
And maybe to him that is the only reason, the only reason that he needs for anything.
-----
Together so long and it is rare that passion burns but when it does it is consuming and then they are like tinder that ignites quickly and is eaten up by the flame. Mikey pushes Frank through the door to the hotel room as soon as he's gotten it unlocked. They did not have a show tonight so they went out, and in the anonymous darkness of a club they watched a band play and through subtle signals - their own language and specific vocabulary - they rediscovered a lust that left them both horny like teenagers and anxious for the privacy afforded by a room in a fancy hotel.
Mikey feels rather limp and lovely, and there is some kind of erotic charge that runs underneath his skin when he brushes Frankie's arms, hands, thighs. This is a kind of a slow thing, slow that he undoes the button on Frank's frayed jeans, and slow that he unzips the zipper. Inch by inch he pulls off his boxers, intent now on giving pleasure and ignorant of his own erection now that his desire has been transmuted into the deep urge to make someone else tremble.
His lips brush Frank's groin, hot and fragrant with the scent of his body, and the dark gleaming hair there. His knees are dangling off the edge of the bed and he has fallen backwards so that when Mikey looks up the view is strange and terribly foreshortened; stomach and ribs and the curving throat and jaw. Frank hums with the lazy contentedness of someone who is being granted pleasure at no expense.
Above the elastic waist of Frank's boxers a dark mark appears, a little smudge on all that creamy skin, and Mikey pauses and thinks to himself for a moment. It slipped his mind, that little scar, after watching for a few days to make sure that it couldn't be seen, was some little imperfection that nobody else was ever going to see, hidden as it is beneath the waist of Frank's cute little jeans.
But it looms large now, and he rubs it with his thumb and still it will not come off and it irks him so that he lays his head on Frank's belly and stares at it until his vision is blurred and it looks larger and darker, that scar, then it has yet.
"What's this?" he asks, all casual and no hint of duress in his voice, even though it is imperitive suddenly that he know how and why and when it was formed.
Frank sits up and glances at the mark, which Mikey has covered a little with his hand. He frowns, a cute confused expression, and considers. "That?" he says. "I don't know. It's just a little thing. I don't think I ever noticed it."
-----

6.12.05 21:12





Floating in between where our worlds collide.
6.12.05 23:48




Am Freitag kommt der PC raus und das ganze neue Zeug rein. Deswegen muss ich den Schrank ausr?umen.

Mir gef?llt das so gar nicht, dass dann an die vier Leute in meinem Zimmer rumrennen. Hoffentlich geht das schnell. *ins Kuschelkissen wein*


Auf dem Parkplatz bei Roller.
Mutti "Will der hier rein?"
Ich "Naja, er blinkt..."
Mutti "Jaa, aber bei Leuten mit so 'nem Bart wei? man nie."
Ich "Ahja."
Mutti "Glaubst mir nicht?"
Ich "Ja nee, ist klar. Ist klar."

Bei Leuten mit so 'nem Bart wei? man nie...



~...Motorr?der von Suzuki...~
7.12.05 16:30



Das war grad... Haha... ich geh auf web.de und seh das Bild in ganz klein unten bei den Nachrichten




und denke O.O 'Waaaaas ist das denn?'


Ist nur Fu?ball. Sieht man auch sofort, wenn man ein bisschen die Augen aufmacht.

Aber ich war grad... naja... war ich eben. *lach*
7.12.05 17:01




Do you want to mend me? Lick away the blood and the hurt, kiss the open wounds before biting into tender flesh.
7.12.05 20:09


 [eine Seite weiter]



Verantwortlich für die Inhalte ist der Autor. Dein kostenloses Blog bei myblog.de! Datenschutzerklärung
Werbung