the_best_lonliness werewolf the sounds of the city were shallow untill he unlatched the window with the same impatient flick you give the top button of denim jeans, but once admitted they seemed to grow deeper and deeper, inviting him to step out onto the fire escape, to want to climb down it, to question whether there was ever anywhere you could stop, whether it was natural for people to have homes. Lights rebounded so fast they seemed to have never left their sources, save for a slight diminishing he had to have heard about to see, the way one sees the green flash in a sunset or tastes the difference in exspensive wines. He was angry at something but he couldn't tell what, was it his own inaction, his lack of trust for himself, or was it his lack of trust for others. He knew that somewhere, in some sandbox or some darkened corner of a schoolroom or an old house the two must've been related. But there comes a time in one's life where it is either your fault or their fault. He wished he lived in a world where these things were discussed impartially after everyone got what they wanted, not a prerequisite, a screening process like they were to her, and admittedly to himself. Things had to be sorted out, nevermind that they wanted to kiss each other, that kiss had to be assigned value, apparent value. There was simply too much to be apparent, to be in this world meant that there are places of light and darkness, moments of rest and moments of action. Life not only developed, but thrived on the moving around of one type of stuff. The clock changed and for once he caught it. How many times had it changed without him being there? Everytime he came home though, he openly accepted it had changed minute to minute, like one hand climbing a ladder rung by rung to predictable plateaus. He knew there was something novel, something that would unlock his puzzle, their relationships, the frozen sea inside him as Kafka put it, just underneath his nose, a path he was capable of seeing but not trained to see, like the green flash again. People don't show other people how to do it all when you're older again. That's what's wrong with relationships. When you're a child, being parented is about knowing there is no rejection, no real loss, it is a place of total safety. As an adult, there is never a place we can call home, never a question we can ask without downgrading ourselves. It's all a competition to be the wiser parent. Why hadn't she called, he wondered. He wanted to fuck her with the lights off, as if she was anonymous, as if they were starting over, from there, piecing together who they were from that single scene of sinews and sweat and the passionate creation and forgettal of rhythms, symphonies unrecorded and forgotten. He wanted it to be the first scene of a mystery, and for the entire rest of the relationship to be conjecture. Maybe then they could see what in their motions was personal and what was just human, they could see what was just what they ate for breakfast that day and what was the way they were scolded for not wanting a christmas present as a child. He wanted to walk out of the door and go to a bar, listen to some lonely girl's troubles with a gentle smile, as if he himself had never been confused. He wanted to walk into other people's lives with that Buddha smiling, knowing like the Buddha did, the peace of lonliness, the fundamental silence of existence. He closed his window, he closed his eyes, the phone rang. He rushed to pick it up. her voice, was pulpy and thick, slow and unsteady like a rock climber but not waiting for hello or the usual safe distances of friends or accquaintances but rather jumping right into the issues as if she was a voice coming from inside of him. But he was ready, he walked over from the window wearing armor. His armor was nakedness, a masochistic openess. He listened to her voice not as if he owned it, but with the curious pleasure he had as he sat on the fire escape at the open window. All he heard was just more sounds, more promises of depth, as empty and as full as the wind, as ridiculous and sincere. He smiled and interupted her, a habit he knew she hated, "I love you." Then he hung up the phone. 030313 ... pipedream *applause* the best loneliness is sitting tucked into a corner in a windowsill on a sunny, windy day; with a good book and something to eat and the world far, far away, humming in the background but never allowed to come closer than a blur in the distance. 030313 ... girl_jane is the kind when you're thinking of somebody else, and you know that person is lonely too, thinking of being with you. 030314 ... girl_jane also werewolf-well done 030314 ... REAListic optimIST closed eyes, breathing in until fullness. The still moment stretches into anonymity, the endless silence broken by the valence jump of consciousness' rebirth in the next moment, already having smoothed over the discontinuous jump, having reconciled the separate selves into a frankenwhole. In that endless logarithmic peace are the moments of the_best_lonliness. 080718 ... somebody another great werewolfing 080718 ... unhinged i wait for my phone to ring and when it does it's some damn recorded message about how the warantee (sp) on the vehicle i don't have is about to expire i filled the emptiness today with tofu fajitas and packing and practicing productive_loneliness 080718 what's it to you? who go blather from