Brought to you by the letter “El”

The scenario


I stood in a glass box. Heat lamps buzzed overhead. There were 8 people under them, including me. We stood at a half-arm’s length of each other, lined up like dominoes superglued to the wooden platform. (Please, for the sake of it, let’s just pretend that superglue successfully bonds plastic to damp wood, k?) The Chicagoan winter temperature warranted more of a crowd in that box. So, enter lady # 9. Why would that girl with the frostbitten nose and wet hair stand outside of that glorious heat radius? The man with only-a-moustache huddling at a half-arm’s length next to me probably scared her off…

Another scenario

On the Santiago Metro, I remember, regular human contact was normal. Completely. This is due to the high concentration of people in one place, unparalleled to Chicago. It was understood that no one should act inappropriately, accordingly. By inappropriately I mean with sexual, disgusting or violent intent. There are probably other adjectives I’m forgetting. Fill in the blanks where you will. Isn’t that what life’s about?
Moving on…
Granted, a few people copped a feel or two at my expense while I was just minding my business among the sedated-cow crowd. I was trying to read the paper on my caffeinated-with-only-fucking-instant-coffee morning train ride to work. Eh, I don’t blame ‘em. I was a foreigner breaking up the monotony of the Chilean commuter landscape. No really. I’m taller than the lot of them, VERY white.
And maybe cute… who knows? In my experience, that last characterization doesn’t always mean very much when profane behavior is incited. Keep reading…

The “exotic”, in the history of human interaction, has always been sexually appealing to many, despite (and/or because of) what some tried to tell themselves about the proverbial “others”. In this regard,
think historical conquests of all shades,
think contemporary sex-trade,
think mail-order brides,
think sex “tourism,”
think… curiosity. IT doesn’t always kill the cat. Though on many occasions, it does. Sometimes, you’ll find a purr-factory…In addition, I’d say because of the unfounded restrictions some societies will’ve installed on inter-racial/cultural relations, the interaction became all the more desirable. We’re just so damn rebellious when it comes to our patterned behavior. What? Oh, people. C’mon now, get with the program already. We’re all hot.
But in these instances, here’s what may be considered erotic: the symbolic “space” between cultures that is incongruent with the physical closeness of intimacy. That tug-o’-war between what one should and shouldn’t pursue can be quite sexy, indeed. There is much passion found in conflict.

In Wine, Truth…

Now, here’s something fun! Consider the situation if everyone was drunk. WHEEEE!
I’ve never quite thought about that before. But I’m taking wild stab and imagining it would be an entertaining pastime if I had. I wonder if lewdness would ultimately prevail? A question like that could plague a person for life.

Who is who? The sober one or the drunken one? Well I could imagine that at least in the lives of, for example, Russians and Canadians, vodka and ale respectively could steal away the bite from the cold. Their behavior, on the other hand? Think of the potentially violent tempers they are reputed for having. I know that’s very one-dimensional of me to say, but reputations are very real, regardless of their connectivity to reality. So maybe I shouldn’t have used that as a unit of analysis.
I did.
What are you going to do about it?
Who’s even reading this anyway? Ha!
Moving on…

Space v. closeness in the realm of drunkards in the cold (and not). All of the following scenarios include groups of people, 2 or more. Understanding the dynamics between just two people and two-hundred people would differ immensely, I’m oversimplifying for fun. I find this part rather funny. Or sad. (Care to tell me which?) Bear with me…

1. It’s freezing. Instead of huddling with another person, take a drink. That’ll take the edge off.

2. Drinking in and of itself will take the edge off of the more superficial social mores that keep the (symbolic & physical) space between us stronger than usual. ‘Under the influence’** as it were, people are more likely to castrate each other or copulate. In either case, (physical & symbolic) closeness is a necessity.

**In my opinion, the real influence we live under is our own law.

3. “In wine, truth.” A good saying.
(…Does this apply to everyone? You know, I’ve only asked one other person seriously about the effect alcohol has on her. So we share our experiences with it. She tells me I’m crazy. Could be. I digress...)


4. Every person is a combination of his/her inner person and outer person. Basically, to define the inner and outer person, we’ll start by asking ourselves the following (relatively) dichotomous questions:

-What do you do when no one’s watching? versus What do you do in a crowd?
-What do you do when the lights go out? versus What do you do under the pressure of the lime light? Florescent lights?

If you say, “nothing differently, OF COURSE! ☺” then, Congratu-fucking-lations, shit-grin!
In the U.S. at least, under a Western cultural value system, we respect the TOTAL negotiation between the inner and outer in both private and in public. This is not the case everywhere. Keep that in mind you totally-at-peace-with-yourself Unitedstatesian. …And maybe take a closer look.

The Inner v. Outer

Inner, or The soul

**Note: this term, if you please, is up for interpretation. You may insert whatever word you wish there, just so long as the integrity of the concept remains AND it makes sense to you!)

Outer, or The actor

Sometimes those two aspects of a person work together, sometimes they work against each other. Unless a person is inhumanly in control of this, the two are never mutually exclusive. In any case, is closeness only defined by extent of the exposition, or sharing, of the soul to another?

For many, the instantaneous baring of the soul is more likely to occur while drunk.
A brief interlude during a conversation I had recently reminded me of this (paraphrased):
“Do you have any secrets?”
“Well, Yes.”
“Well?”
*awkward pause, laugh*
“I’d need a drink or two first to even know what they are, let alone tell you.”

For these purposes, the subconscious and the soul could be more or less synonymous. Depending on whether or not one is cognizant of the goings-on of the subconscious is another fucking essay all together.

Trust\

Strangers never trust each other. And why would they? I’m no exception to the rule. Gullible, sure! I used to think that gullibility was an extension of trust. I have yet to prove myself entirely wrong.

In my opinion (for now), centuries ago, closeness may have come inherently with proximity, regardless of what anyone wanted. People who lived near by each other needed one another to survive. See, trust had to be worked out. If you couldn't trust your neighbor, who could you trust? Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that closeness and trust are the same concept whatsoever. What I am saying is that the two ideas eventually play each other out in practice. They are ideas that negotiate with one another.

Now that we can obtain our goods and services through the chain of command, there’s no need for any kind of proximal team efforts. Even in the workplace, where this type of reliance may be necessary to get shit done, closeness of any un-condoned sort within that glass box is frowned upon. See: company manual.

Vulnerability v. Strength

In a song by Regina Spektor, “Apres Moi”, there’s a lyric that goes:
“You can’t break that which isn’t yours.”
Self-preservation.
Oh, god, how cliché! How over-done! That topic has been charred to a crisp. What am I writing about that for? Can’t anyone get away from that topic when discussing human nature? I wish!!! But…
Is that what we’re all in it for? (Here we go, yet AGAIN.)

The extent to which one tolerates a certain amount of space or closeness to another/others might have virtually everything to do with how comfortable one is sharing. Sharing personal
space, resources, ideas, insecurities…
The way I see it, people construe sharing as either a source of:

a) vulnerability
b) strength

Western cultures tend to find “a)” to be truer, whereas Eastern cultures find “b)” more truthful. This is OF COURSE another generalization, and god, am I good at that, but please, let me explain…


Compartmentalization of closeness

Closeness of all kinds has become compartmentalized. Boxed up and wrapped in color coded ribbon for all of our convenience. Everything must be labeled accordingly.

What’s interesting to me is the confusion this type of behavior can bring, which leads me to believe it is NOT necessarily in line with the way we should be relating to one another. I’m not one to place my flesh and blood in line with the crowd who believes in nature OVER nurture… and that’s partially because we’ve always behaved in ways which convolute us. And we were trying to organize ourselves to make sense of us… HM!

Silly humans! We amuse me.

Read Between the Lines

“Please, sir, plague me with your presence; I’ll be in that first train car,” chanted Dalia to herself as she reapplied her mauve lipstick. The woman in the seat across from her watched her with a smile. Dalia shot the woman a fleeting look, her eyelids recoiled and relaxed in a half second’s time and stood up. She walked to the sliding door as the train slowed, jerked, one hand reaching for the back seat handle.

“How many times have I told myself not to look?!” Dalia chastised herself, her darting glances dancing as awkwardly as she tried (& tottered,) balancing on her 2 inch heels. Briskly smoothing her perfectly pressed pantsuit, she straightened her posture and readjusted her purse so that it settled on her shoulder just as comfortably as a moment before. She took one conscious breath. Now, calmly and decisively, she focused her eyes on a crack in the outdated wooden platform. Slipping her fingers into her slender jacket pockets, she felt the plastic wrapping of a fortune cookie. Despite how sensitive she tried to be of her surroundings, she somehow overlooked this giant bulge in her front pocket for hours. The train jerked to a halt; “damn those new drivers;” ripping her hands out of her pockets, her jaw clenched and bicep tensed gripping the seat yet again in preparation for a stumble.

Stepping with a purposeful stride out of the car, she turned left and realized she needed to turn right; “just like every day, damn it!” Her eyebrows furrowed in support of her eyes searching quickly for any witnesses to her aloofness. Dalia followed a few yards behind the sparse crowd that regularly gets off at this stop at this time.

“5:45pm.”

Her steps less important than before, she reached back into her pocket for that fortune cookie. “Tell me something I don’t already know. I dare you.” She actually murmured this aloud, but one could tell by her demeanor that she had no idea she did so. The plastic packaging, ornery as all others, wouldn’t open until she used her teeth. The fortune cookie snapped in irregular patterns that were instantly demolished by her teeth too. She leered at the fortune she kept wedged between her thumb and forefinger…

“You are headed in the right direction. Trust your instincts.”

…She imagined its author laughing maniacally over The Primordial Typewriter and a cookie batter cauldron with utterly spiteful delight – laughing at each letter – cackling even more mightily at the spaces between the words. Those blank spaces. Uninterruptible. un-interpretable. They cemented that damned phrase into intelligible pieces on that small life-corrupting piece of paper....

More to come, maybe.

**A Psychoanalysis of the End of the World, part 4

4. Inside the apocalypse

In a room with only windows, you reached into your mouth and
uncovered a hard swelling lump in the back of your gums,
on the lower jaw.
Pushing up slowly, difficulty
with ease like a birth,
the molar did not break the skin but rather
unhinged the flap
that normally kept it from its currently unusual exit.
A pleasantly interrupted light,
like the glowing television
snow piercing through a dense fog,
lit only a diagonal prism in the room outlined by the
measures of the window.
The rest of the space was left
opaque and dark where you had knelt.
“What have you done?”
You only picked up this voice
like a radio transmission,
vague and cotton-spun
like the light that entered the room.
Strangely your ear acutely measured the sound’s solid outline,
its cell wall, permeating a very
large
singular
pore
in the dark.
The question emerged to find
not you, per se,
but a place to nest.

The pink flesh of your mouth
pulsed at the mass pushing itself out of
your way, more questions.
Aching for a mere moment more,
you reached in your mouth,
grappled with all fingers at its porcelain.
It came out before you could pull it out,
understanding I agitated the molar earlier.
A memory:
chomping down on it too hard,
with and without meaning to,
flickered on the neurotransmitters of your brain.

This is not what you told the voice in the room.
Something that dwells within the
continuum of truth and lie
lived for but a brief moment,
lingered in its submission.
“It came out all on its own,”
you heard my voice anxiously assert.
You were only quietly ashamed, and
my curiosity to see what had surfaced
from you
easily subdued that feeling.

Between your fingers,
the molar felt so still,
almost
tranquil, with life.
You did not find it hard to grasp.
When you raised it to the light,
all your other senses held themselves back as you looked.
It was a crystal organism.
Its outlines clearly defined themselves,
an imperfect form formed perfectly;
veins piercing through its interior resembled
great purple fault lines,
lying dormant for centuries without even a threat of stirring.
The light from the window did not shine through the molar,
nor did the molar mute its passing.
It did not glow nor sparkle.
How it was, you will never know for sure,
but this tooth encased the light from the window in a way.
Its clear platinum membrane wall
simply could not let out any single bit of the light it absorbed,
if indeed that is how the molar came to obtain it.
If only you knew.
Another half-lie.
“ ,” I whispered.
“I’m sorry?”
“ ”
I’m sorry, you proclaim
“
I’m sorry
”
you heaved a sigh, without any intention, really,
no motivation to be found.
Emptying yourself felt good, though.
You did not know whether or not you were telling the truth,
the socially desired side of a
dichotomous concept of real and make believe
where, it seems,
only you are vaguely familiar with
the map of its overlaps.

A Psychoanalysis of the End of the World, part 3

3. Impending apocalypse

She spins gracefully over the melted sea storms.

Massive fresh whirlpools of
violent white and black hair.
Pupils contract to
the size of neurons
Giant sickly green irises absorb the Sky,
emitting a dull yellow shadow cast
over the ocean surrounding her.

Cages rise from the sea like
cargo ships bursting from the depths,
as if they encaged themselves for centuries
climbing to the surface
gasping for decreased pressure.

Rusted metal friction
echoes for miles upon miles

as she dances about them,
flailing her arms with the most indecisive directions
averting the lightning striking each cage.

The cages shed their rust as
fireworks spill from their bars,
at every strike,
her voice like the sound of a Himalayan avalanche –

it pounds the waves as
they struggle
for calm, but cannot stop.

Even still her dance provokes them.

As the waves stretch the material of her dress
as the whirls overtake a wider space, they catch
on the small specks of spiked rust on the cages,
still revolving unanimously
in painful unison with her dance.

She is pinned but does not stop as her dress shreds and rips away,
revealing millions –
souls who found new bodies.
She occupies them.

Her hair knots around the oxidizing metal bars
forcing her head into

the rhythm of their revolution

until she jolts herself hard,
her hair then attached to the bars like
ribbons floating gracefully in the wind.

As their motion is manipulated by a tired ocean,
her head splotched with open lesions.

The ocean tattoos her with
its insensitive temperatures
piercing into each pore,
so sensitive to the ocean salt,
but dances more rigorously, but
now to desperately keep warm.

The ocean rises around her,
covering her body with its
antigravity anguish,
and she flails her arms
tries to push away the storm
but only serves to strengthen it.

She screams like the raven
making the cages shatter and
fall into the waves.

The pieces circle her,
her
arms
legs
chest
face
back

jaundicing the sea.

A Psychoanalysis of the End of the World, part 2

2. It(')s time

And ‘til the day he dies
he proclaims antipathy at the world
in its darkest hour,
according to him.
His eyes were closed,
his world was coming to a close.
At his bed, the smell of
sulphur,
iron,
sea salt,
and pigment, pigment like pink fuzz,
but he seemed to like it, smiling
gracefully,
at the world’s darkest hour.
The clock, denoting his time,
the only occasion he ever really
paid attention to that chime;
it was always so necessary,
a nuisance before.
This dusty old grandfather clock passed down
from generation to generation
of darkest hours
chiming at those times,
every time,
ceaselessly until the fuzz whitens
and withers away.
Yellows,
like petals of un-watered flowers
or scrunched up straw wrappers,
wetted by unmannered children at the dinner table
with dirt under their finger nails,
making them look like thin white
worms slimy and slithering,
born of imagining them emerging from the Earth.

A Psychoanalysis of the End of the World, Part 1

The state of the world

Guilt hangs low in the soul –
a woman barely sixty
but ready to go somewhere outside the house –
a little fresh air,
but wait!
the home insulates cleanliness,
white.
outside is worse than…
worse than …? is what she wants to know,
but hasn’t had a basis of comparison in centuries
of ….

and lip surgeries.
She has bitten, again, through her stitches
gnawing at a possibility of something else
something more,
something
yellowed,
a chance
for her alone.
For herself
she would live
gracefully.