a gentleman would walk but never run, just like this new guy who started working the other day. he wears white everyday, buttoned up all the way except for the neck, starched collars with a couple of hair strings peeping out from below his also white t-shirt underneath.
he's very proper, always says hi, nods if you catch his eyes on the way to the men's room, or the director's office in the corner. he speaks very slowly, but not too slow, just very clear. he's got a low voice, thick and deep and easily audible, he never raises it. he spews as few words as possible to convey his message, as if he pays sales tax on every single one. he only talks business, with the most subtle smile on his face.
in his small nylon lunch box he carries fruits for breakfast and a sandwich and a tomato for his lunch. he takes his lunch in private, noone ever sees him eating. you just know he's just had lunch if you catch him rinsing off his tupperware in the kitchen. he pops a soda in the afternoon, same time, same can. noone knows if he finishes, he rarely takes a sip. nevertheless, you'd find his can in the recycling bin at the end of the day, everyday.
there was a bee in the office today. v announced its presence with a short cry from her cubicle. then it bugged d and s, and then it was on my monitor and i waved it away. then i heard a loudest slap from the next aisle. i turned around to catch the new guy whirling like a mad man in the middle of the his cubicle, slamming his big white hands together every which way, panting nonstop. he suddenly froze with his hands clammed supposedly on the insect, crunched them together for a while, and dropped the remainder on the carpet and stumped on it with a firm and loud thud.
he straightened his collar, nodded at a few of us staring at him, and sat down at his cubicle, completely in peace with the world. we heard him slurp his soda today, i think he finished it too.
an apple a day keeps the bottle away. he ran out of apples today, or was it yesterday? maybe today, just a few years back.
on his right shoulder he's got a barcode tattoo from a kleenex box once full of white two-ply tissues, clean and scented and folded with ungodly precision. do you feel shitty in general? did you have a shitty day at work? did you just break up and feel like shit? did your significant other defecate on your whole entire life? well why don't you take a tissue from him and vent all of your crap into it? please dispose responsibly when you're done, and also be considerate, don't take too many, there are others behind you with their own shit with nowhere to dump it.
did you not get a chance to use him today? no worries, there are a few tissues left for tomorrow, and the day after, and the next day as well. oh please don't, he's totally fine. it's not like he's never used human tissues to wipe off his own shit. what goes around comes around, ten times stronger, some times a hundred.
a bottle a day safely keeps all these shitty thoughts away, for a few hours, until he wakes up in the middle of the night, panting, looking for the white clicker of his bedlamp, and remembering for the millionth time that he's moved out today, or was it yesterday? or seven years ago?
his soul is dead; says dr m.
but that wasn't all. not that he didn't know any of it before, but reassurance never hurts. he tried his best to talk succinct, nothing wordy, although he did make sure he throws in the keywords. indifference, inevitable death, universal misery and innate miscommunication of mankind.
he's stuck on track two of thirteen, "once". it's pretty cheesy. too cheesy. right up his alley, and he's stuck. nice is the new deceitful, according to dr m. noone's nice, unless you're lying of course. everyone's just who he is. selfish lonely creatures scattered across planet zoo. "and when i'm a good dog they sometimes throw me a bone in." gods are brutal, but they're feeding us, so suck it up and live it.
track two restarts, only for the millionth time. she asked what he sees in the world, and if he ever stares at ants. of course she doesn't need to know that he counts the ants line on the edge of the tub every single morning to decide how many he could wash off into the drain that day. he says he sees perfect order in the whole and perfect chaos in details. she says ocean is significant and powerful and it's only made up of insignificant drops. he says he chooses to be the one that's left behind on the sand when the tide goes in, detached for good. cliche. corny. right up his alley, stuck on track two.
it's her voice probably, marketa irglova, suits the voice. she says indifference beats depression since the latter is a known phenomenon with a clear recovery path. indifference is the survival strategy of the selfless. when all one lives for is others, when self is suppressed, disappointed. she's right and wrong. he does live for others, yet his ego beats the ocean she's mesmerized with, which part of i-know-better-than-all-of-you-suckers signifies suppression?
or maybe it's the beat? or the scene from the movie? dr m believes his anima is suffocating him. she believes his dreams of we-all-know-who does not mean he wants her back, but that he hasn't let go. that he's in love with his anima and embodies it in the memory of this one woman who's walked him through the discovery. she's right probably. for one thing this explains the intimate shower sessions between his hands with the masculine member, it's not him, it's the horny anima.
last time he listened to one song so many times was probably first year of college, the all-nighters, indefinite whispering phone calls with this one tape of one song recorded over and over again in the background. whatever. towards the end dr m has one advice. cherish the dreams. she believes when the conscious persona gives up on life, the solution is in the subconscious. write down your dreams, she says. don't take them for face value, they're showing you what's holding you back. she asks if he believes in symbols. dr m does. he doesn't. he's lying like a dog.
thank you dr m, he thinks. he might never visit her again. dr m is a fine woman who thinks his soul is dead, that his status is worse than depression and that his self is suppressed with his anima running his show. she might be right, or might be wrong. dr m's words don't make any difference either. words are meaningless, expressionless. nothing matters, really, and the same song plays over and over and over again: if you want me, satisfy me.
the man without a woman has a dog he hates, a phone that never rings and an empty seat across his table. he's immersed in his book as he sucks on a straw in his tall glass of blended cantaloupe. if you see him you'd almost swear he's incredibly content. if you pass by him you'd almost believe he's enjoying his time. if you stare at him you'd also see him smile, a most subtle little twitch at the corner of his lips. but then you'd most likely never see him or pass by him and most definitely never ever stare at him. the man without a woman is invisible in your world; he lives in one of his own, a world without women.
the man without a woman is peaceful. he's in no rush. he's observant, patient and tolerant. if you talk to him you'll find he's articulate and friendly. he'll listen. if you trust him you'll be most comfortable sharing your deepest secrets with him. if you judge him he'll just smile and support your argument, never picks on you to get even. only that you won't talk to him. you'll never trust him and you wouldn't ever get to judge him. the man without a woman never talks to anyone. he has nothing to talk about.
the man without a woman is a decent man. he doesn't lie and never cheats. if you get to know him you'll revise your perceptions of the male specimen. if you learn about his past you'd feel most affectionate towards him. if you hear his stories you'll almost like him more than you've ever liked anyone in your life. of course you'll never get to know him, and no matter how much you try you'll never understand how he became the man without a woman. he's the ultimate stranger, a total alien, an element of his own.
the man without a woman is happy although you'll never know. he's got a story you'll never read. he's got a vision you can't begin to understand. he knows so much he needs not think. the man without a woman could be the king. could be god. could be anything; only he isn't. the man without a woman doesn't care. he's utterly indifferent.
nothing ever matters, nothing, to the man without a woman.
the bookworm's curse is cast upon thee as thou readeth more. it's all been said and written before, so why bother? it's all there. when i grow up i'll have a dog, and i'll call him google, and my dog will know everything, literally. i mean man, chesterton wrote the damn thing in nineteen oh eight, and i could have sworn it's written like yesterday.
meanwhile life happens on metrolink, in traffic, in a half-deserted apartment, in between beers, whiskey half pints and silver patron shots. pointless, everything. and one "can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of his own exactitude" in predecting the absurdity of adulthood. not that i predicted any of this of course, i mean what is there to predict? just feels good saying it. literahigh.
short stories in farsi, anyone? it's safe to state with six sigma confidence that ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent of them are pure crap, too dull, banal, trite, etc. what bothers me is that it doesn't sound like they're even trying. someone's gotta do something, someone. the other ten percent are either too abstract or too old, or both. whatever happened to hedayat's disciples.
recent hobbies include cornering people in personal arguments that could potentially excite myself out of my own comfort zone and observing their defense strategy, if any. funny how insecurities surface almost instantly, no interference required, just the initial trigger. also interesting how i could identify similar behavioral traits like those of my own, especially the annoying ones. heck we're all bunch of pathetic hopeless funny creatures, of course some are less funny, they have 'beliefs'; in what?
the struggle is over. i can feel it. this is it. life, my life, right here, right now. hello convolution. hello genesis. hello the end. utopia is hell and hell is utopia, and here i come. let's rephrase, here i am, where i've always been.
resentment towards public displays of anomaly. resentment towards wearing what others don't. resentment towards talking like others won't. resentment towards claims of discomfort, mismatch, exclusivity. resentment towards resenting mainstreams. all the same, all simple, silly and sad creatures of the same humorous gods, breathing the same free air.
resentment towards women. towards kids. towards the gym, floss and decaf diet coke. resentment towards education, towards careers, money, cars and organic soy beans. resentment towards houses, restaurants, malls and modern amphitheaters. resentment towards progress.
resentment towards you, writing, self and much more.
resent me.
is nice and pricey. my body weeps. developing lactose intolerance. chest muscle spasm. indigestion anomalies. alcohol is kicking in, it feels good, or not. define feeling. define good.
meet sherry. dark brown skin, dark hazel eyes, bright orange hair, five eleven, firm physique, french manicure and of course polished orange toe nails. looks you in the eyes if she passes you by, smiles sometimes. high heels everyday, designer wardrobe garnished by sleek accessories. born and raised detroit to an african american and an egyptian. she walked up to me the other day holding a pack of cd-r's, the label said data, she asked me if she could burn music instead, i assured her she could. then she said it. her name is shahrzad, from one thousand and one stories, her dad's favorite. i smiled that day.
meet virginia. born and raised in ukraine. married with two kids to an uzbek. never wears her ring. i mean she does wear rings, just not the ring. despises make up, any kind, anything. religiously avoids sticking any substances anywhere on her skin. never combs her hair, trust me on that. spends her entire paycheck on designer shoes, tight skirts, chic tops and matching scarves that go with her shoes. i asked her about the primary keys and then complemented her on her shoes, she said she's tired, but she said 'i could survive longer if men noticed such things'. on the same day she linked me in, and there i had it: her name is yevgeniya; i like her name.
meet aquarius. jet black skin, angel pasta hair. never talks, screams instead, from the top of her lungs, like there's no tomorrow. anally precise, of course, qa. diligent. responsible. she has one secret: spell checks her own name, in every single email. the other day she confronted omid, the annoying persian guy, then noone saw him again. she's alright.
meet nancy the attorney. nasally challenged. doesn't talk aloud, doesn't scream, doesn't even shriek, she doesn't need to: her chords strike at an ungodly pitch, let alone humane. thom york's muse for karma police. buzzing and fizzling and rebuzzing and sputtering every single brain cell of the living within five miles, and the dead too probably. i don't like nancy.
women.
and such.
this is not hollywood, like i understand... runaway...
he had barely embarked on the impossible task of deciding which cereal to buy when it occurred to him. having run out of dried-berry low-fat granola at 7:58am pea es tea(aka pee es tee, pea es tee, pee es tea, etc.) he had raised the priority level of a trip to tj's in his mental taskbar to 'do it now or die somehow' on the ride back home. he wore his red shorts and stepped into his comfy flip flops, popped some meditative tunes into his life's soundtrack player and beamed himself to aisle four, ignoring everything else including the savory thins. last time it had taken him an average of twenty minutes per trip when he finally managed to pick one on his third in four consecutive days.
life is a bowl of cereal and the events it entails. it's strawberries and a phone call. it's crunchy nuts and a deadline coming up. it's a bowl of muesli and yet another boring day. it's a bowl of anything but chocolate puffs, followed by anything but sanity.
then he lost focus somewhere in the midst of thinking about adjectives for bowls of cereal. why does a stupid cereal matter when women were beaten up on the streets of his hometown the other day or when someone's father passed away or when someone needs money for rent. why does anything matter? what matters?
then he lost his senses and stared at the woman in front of him. she smiled and apologized for blocking his view, conveniently ignoring the very obvious fact that she was the view.
then he went back home and did some homework. then he watched a show. then he read some with half a bottle of cheap wine.
then he went out for more beers. then he laughed at his ex-colleague's lame old jokes and shared some of his own. then he had sex. no not the colleague; he.
then he woke up and went to his bowl of cereal at work, and more events unfolded in his daily meaningless life. who needs meaning anyways. words make the greatest facade for misery. words are good. life is good. it's all good.
"often, the state of the kitchen is the state of the mind, confused and unsure men, pliable men are the thinkers. their kitchens are like their minds, cluttered with garbage, dirty ware, impurity, but they are aware of their mind-state and find some humor in it. at times, with a violent burst of fire they defy the eternal deities and at times they will get half drunk and clean up their kitchens, but soon again all falls into disorder and they are in the darkness again, in need of BABO, pills, prayer, sex, luck and salvation. the man with the ever-orderly kitchen is the freak, however. beware of him. his kitchen-state is his mind-state: all in order, settled, he has let life condition him quickly to a basened and hardened complex of defensive and soothing thought-order. if you listen to him for ten minutes you will know that anything he says in a lifetime will be essentially meaningless and always dull. he is a cement man. there are more cement men than other kinds of men. so if you are looking for a living man, first check his kitchen and save yourself time.
now, the female with the dirty kitchen is another matter - from the male viewpoint. if she is not employed elsewhere and is childless, the cleanliness or dirtyness of her kitchen is almost always (exceptions be granted) in direct ratio to how much she cares for you. some women have theories on how to save the world but can't wash out a coffee cup. if you mention this to them, they will tell you: "washing out coffee cups is not important." unfortunately, it is. especially to a man who has put in 8 hours straight plus 2 overtime on a turret lathe. you begin saving the world by saving one man at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics."
on a side note, dolores o'riordian is growing old with me, with us. she lingered and so did we, she said don't argue but then we did, and now she wants to grow old, or so she says:
Funny how things just tasted better, When we were young
Funny how things just seemed so easy, When we were young
It's been a long day
I wanna get out
I wanna go home
Is anything better
Than you on the phone...
