Brad Simkulet's Blog, page 113

The second day I was sitting in your best friend's room (more like your best girlfriend's, but maybe...

The second day I was sitting in your best friend's room (more like your best girlfriend's, but maybe I flatter myself), my back against her bed, while she and the two idiots gossiped. I read my book and brooded on your lateness, wondering if your Aunt was hassling you again for trying to have a life or if your boss kept you late because somebody else had died or if you were finally getting that massage I bought you for your birthday or if you were out buying me a present for mine.

I was reading the book you gave me. The one you'd read that had spoken to you, the one you thought I was "in." I hadn't found myself yet, but I thought that I'd found the me you think I am, and I wanted to cry, but how could I cry in a room full of these girls? The mocking would be too much for me. So I kept reading and hoped I was wrong, and that you think more of me than you probably do.

K—- was starting to worry about you too.

—Where is she?

The idiots didn't answer, and the silence told me the question was mine to answer. I kept reading.

—Hello. Why isn't she here yet?

—I dunno, I said, lowering my book in my best impersonation of politeness. —Probably something to do with J—-.

Heavily made up eyes rolled. I had to look back at my book. The condescension, the whole tale of their disapproval in one expression pissed me off all over again. Two and a half years of watching people treat you like shit, and I still get angry when people judge (I suppose that's an action I reserve for myself.)

—She'll be here.

That seemed to be enough for them because they were off gossiping about something else. I opened to where I'd left off and tried reading again, but couldn't get my mind off the ways I judge you. The way I judge your choice to let your Aunt take J—- during the day, but what the hell else are you going to do? The way I judge you for J—- 's Dad, but that is just my wounded pride talking. The way I judge your terrible cooking, and your practicality and your embracing of responsibility. The way I judge you for giving up your dreams. I judge all these things in quiet ways that you probably feel, yet I bet you never know how proud I am of you for making hard decisions that I am pretty sure I couldn't make.

Giggly squeels made me look up, and there was  a mirror sitting on K—-'s bed with a small mound of powder in the middle. One of the idiots flipped her nail against the bag to knock the rest of the powder loose, while the other idiot pulled out her Mom's credit card and started forming lines.

—Where did you get it?

—F—- left it out.

—So she took it.

—Oh my god! Does he know you have it?

—Not yet.

K—- reached past my head to her nightstand, opened the drawer, which contained a surprising array of sex toys, and pulled out a shiny metal straw. I dropped my book, got on my knees and really looked at what they were doing.

—Why is it black? I ask.

—We should use it all up. If we don't, F—-'ll just take it all back and sell it.

—Good idea.

—But why is it black? I ask again.

—F—- said it's because it's so pure.

K—- leaned in and snorted up a long, thin black line, then expertly wiped the dust from her nostril and rubbed it against her gums. Three lines disappeared. Three of eight. And the straw was passed to me.

—What is this stuff? I ask, taking the straw nervously.

—It's good! was the giggled response.

I stood up, leaned over and snorted a line too. My first time.

I don't even know why I am doing it; I know you'll just shake your head. The powder rips apart my sinuses and the taste buds on the back of my tongue choke on the bitterness. I cough and start squishing my nose against my face with the back of my hand, rubbing to tear my nose right off my face. The straw's right back in front of me like the body of Christ, clamped between the other idiot's gaudy nails. I didn't even know I'd given up the straw in the first place. I wave it off and choke out:

—Bathroom?

K—- points at her closed bedroom door, and off I go down the hall, the initial blast of discomfort giving way to a reeling unsteadiness. I wonder why gravity isn't working anymore.

Three doors later I am in the bathroom. The pressure on my anus is overwhelming. I have to shit. It's coming now. But the toilet, the bathroom, every fixture, all the space is miniature, or I'm a giant. I can't even reach the toilet to sit. I think I can aim, though. I hover my bare ass over where I think the toilet is, and I hope.

And that's when I hear your muffled voice in the hall and their more  muffled voices and giggles and then all the sound is faint after the thunderousness of a slamming door and then the muffled sounds come back and then there's silence. And I am still caught in midair with titanic pressure on my bowels, but nothing is coming and I can't move for fear of shitting myself or covering the bathroom in shit.

A year later, the pressure relieved, my skydump a success, at least I think it is, I slide back into K—-'s room. The corner of the book you gave me is peeking out from under K—-'s bed. The bed is crisply made, as though three giddy stoned girls hadn't just been sitting on it. The drug mirror hangs back on the wall, with the faintest of smears the only sign of its use. I stand still but I am at K—-'s window, parting the curtains just in time to see you climb in the back seat of K—-'s car.

The curtain drops. My eyelids snap shut. I can't imagine I'll see you tomorrow.

It was us those two days.

rudolph the red nosed reindeer

pianoatforty:

So I bought my first book of music outside of my lessons, and it is a book of easy Christmas Carols. My first, and I'm sneaking this behind my teacher's back, is Rudolph. There're a couple of notes I haven't covered yet, so I am having a fun time trying to figure them out on my own (genuinely).

Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. His nose is blinkin' like a blinkin' beacon, but he's distracting me at just the right time.

moist

she stands there talking about patients and disease, / but she's wearing black tights and cut off skirt jeans / so i can't help it, i drop to my knees.

my tongue snakes out and plunges in / then a finger explores her slippery sin / and i love her cunt all over again.

then i stop / "that's all?" she gasps. / "no. more later."

but it doesn't happen.

It was us those two days. The first day I leaned against the aluminum mesh of the fence and watched...

It was us those two days.

The first day I leaned against the aluminum mesh of the fence and watched the black uniformed baseballers finish their game against a team I never actually saw. I watched the black pitcher throw, the black catcher catch, the black short stop scoop up a ball and throw it to the black first baseman, a couple of black outfielders field routine fly balls. I watched it all dazed, letting my eyes lose focus, and I thought of you. Then the fence shook with your weight and you were with me. Little you.

Your skin was paler than I remembered, but you aren't always out in the sun like you were the way I remember you. You'd come from a day working your job, locked in a windowless basement, preparing bodies for funerals, your mass of hair bunched up in that tight bun that always makes you look so regal.

Still leaning on the fence, I feel you punch my arm.

—You still okay with this?

I pop off the fence and smile, sweeping my head in the direction of your place. I'm okay with this everyday. It's the one thing that I can do for you. And I love J—-. You smile back, that disarming wry smile, knowing that I am thinking your question is a waste of breath, but you don't care that I'm thinking it because you know it is too. But it's a matter of form, just like the permanent bruise on my arm where you hit me in greeting. The only way you touch me.

We cross the street and go up to your small townhouse. Your Aunt is there with J—- on her shoulder, waiting for us. She's probably been watching me watch the baseball game and wanting me to come and take J—- early. Your Aunt pisses me off. She doesn't like me, she treats you like shit, and the way she infantilizes your daughter drives me mad. Just based on that last fact I should come and sit your daughter as soon as possible, but torturing your Aunt is more fun. She's a bully. I hate bullies.

—You're late, D—-.

—Only five minutes. Sorry about that.

—I have to be at work you know?

—I know. Sorry. How was J—-?

—She was an angel, she says with the sickening infantile change in her voice, a tone forced through too much drink and too much cigarette damage.

 I just want her to fuck off. I kick off my shoes and carry J—- straight into the living room, leaving the two of you to work it out. Or her to berate you and you to let it slide off your back. I don't know how you do it, but you do. I wish I had your self control.

I hit the off button on the TV as I plop J—- down, and she's instantly pissed (something else that happens everyday):

—I ah Gabba Gabba.

—No. No Gabba Gabba. Blocks. It's time for blocks.

—Bocks?

—Yeah, blocks.

—Okay.

I crawl across the grey carpet, the kind you'd find in a record store, the sort that is easy to clean, the kind cheap landlords love, and I pull over her tub of blocks. They've not been touched since I was here the day before. J—- is still standing, so she pats me on the back. That little hand pat-pat-patting is the best part of my day. If she was older, say the way you are, she'd punch me on the arm and increase my bruise, but she's wee, and she pats her affection. I pop the lid and pour the blocks out as you appear beside us, scooping up J—- for a hug and cuddle. You carry her to the couch and pop out your breast as nonchalantly as you would pull a carton of milk from the fridge. J—- latches on and you watch me watch you.

You'll go for your run as soon as you're through, and I'll go back to my parents house, unless you will want me to help you study, but you won't.

So I'll see you tomorrow.

Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence My rating: 5 of 5 starsWARNING: This review contains...

Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

WARNING: This review contains a discussion of the c-word, and I plan to use it. Please don't read this if you do not want to see the word spelled out. Thanks.

This is less a review than an homage to my crazy mother (now I have you really intrigued, don't I?)

It was 1983, and I was in my first Catholic school. I'd spent my first six years of school in a public school, but my "behavioral issues" coupled with my lack of growth made me a target for bullies, so my parents were advised to move me to another school where no one knew me.

So off I went to the home room of a fallen nun, who'd given up her habit for a family. She wasn't much of a teacher. She was an old school Catholic educator who practiced punitive teaching, which included kicks to the shins, yanking of ears, pulling of hair, and screaming from close range.

I kept my head down and tried to blend in with my new surroundings, but my Mother made that difficult from the get go. I was a voracious reader, and she passed on the disease to me. From grade two on she had been recommending great books to me. I was reading everything before most everyone else, but my Mom's recommendation of Lady Chatterly's Lover in my first month of Catholic school was probably her most outrageous and unforgettable recommendation.

She bought me a copy at the book store in the mall, and that's where I met one of my favourite words of all time — cunt.

Back in 1983, cunt was not a word in your average child's vocabulary. Sure we'd heard it, and maybe even seen it, but it was not something that was regularly used by kids, and its usage was pretty vague to every 13 year old I knew.

But there it was in Lady Chatterly's Lover. It was all over the place. So as I read the story and absorbed the way Lawrence used cunt, his usage became my usage. Lawrence used cunt beautifully; it was not a term of denigration; it was not used to belittle; it was not an insult nor something to be ashamed of; cunt was lyrical, romantic, caring, intimate. And I came to believe that cunt was meant to be used in all these ways. That the poetic use of cunt was the accepted use of cunt, the correct use of cunt, and suddenly cunt was part of my vocabulary.

I was thirteen.

Now I didn't just start running around using cunt at every opportunity. I did what I always did with new words that I came to know and love. I added them to my vocabulary and used them when I thought it was appropriate.

And when I whispered it to Tammy, the girl I had a crush on, a few weeks later, thinking that it was the sort of romantic, poetic language that made women fall in love with their men (I can't remember what I said with it, but I know it was something very much like what Mellors would have said to Constance), she turned around with a deep blush, a raised eyebrow and a "That's disgusting" that rang through the class (I can still see the red of autumn leaves that colored her perfectly alabaster skin under a shock of curly black hair, aaaah…Tammy. Apparently she had a better sense of cunt's societal taboos than I did). Mrs. C—- was on her feet and standing parallel to the two of us in a second, demanding to know what was going on.

To her credit, Tammy tried to save me — sort of. She said "Nothing." Then Mrs. C—- turned on me; I was completely mortified (I'd obviously blown it with the first girl I loved in junior high school), and while I was in this shrinking state, Mrs. C—- demanded to know what was happening and what I had said.

I tried to avoid repeating what I had said. I admitted I shouldn't have been talking. I admitted that I should have been working. I tried to divert her attention. But she was a scary lady, and I couldn't help myself. I repeated what I had said — as quietly as I could — but as soon as Mrs. C—- heard "cunt" I was finished. That was the moment I knew "cunt" was the catalyst for the whole debacle.

Now…I'd known before that the word was taboo, but I didn't think it would generate the response it did. I really thought that Tammy would be flattered. And I certainly didn't expect that I would be dragged to the office by an angry ex-nun. Silly me.

I got the strap. It was the first time (although there would be another). Three lashes to the palm of the hand.

I didn't use "cunt" in public or private for a long time after that, but my punishment couldn't diminish my love for the word. Lawrence made such and impression on my young mind that neither humiliation nor physical pain could overcome my appreciation of cunt's poetic qualities.

To me the word is and always will be a beautiful and, yes, gentle thing.

Every time that event was recounted at the dinner table over the years, whether it was amongst family, or with my girlfriends or my future wife, my Mom always got this sly little grin on her face and indulged in a mischievous giggle before refusing to take the blame for me getting the strap. After all, "Who was the one who was stupid enough to use the word, Brad? Not me."

I love her response as much as I love the word.

And in case you were wondering, my Mom never stopped recommending books to me. She was an absolute kook. I miss her.

I can't wait to pass on Lady Chatterly's Lover to my kids…but I think it's going to have to be in grade three if it's going to have the same effect it had on me…hmmm…I wonder how that will go over.

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a question

ruzz asked me a question that goes to the core of my being. he asked because he knows that our experiences are similar. i want to give him an answer. so i sat down twenty minutes ago and tried to craft what i needed to say, but i found myself deleting everything, and then i thought of my grandpa and i realized that it is 13 days until THAT day, and i can't bring myself to be self-reflective until two weeks from now (and even then i'll need a rest) cause all i can really do is tread water, and spit out what i choke on, and try to float as much as i can so that everyone around me is safe and i don't descend into my madness and i don't end up medicated and i can function. sorry, ruzz. i want to answer you. i will. but not now.

love, jude

heard at breakfast

Pa (from the kitchen): Everything changes today guys.

Te (from the table): What do you mean "everything changes"?

Pa: It's Sunday. Chores change.

Te: So I'm doing garbage —

Los (from the table): — and I am doing table.

Pa: Yep.

Los: We're travelling down different roads, Te.

Te: No we're not. We're just switching chores.

Los: It's a metaphor.

Te: Oh yeah. I forgot.

Pa: Good work. Where'd you learn that?

Te & Los: You told us.

Pa: Oh yeah. I forgot.

(in case you don't know … they're seven)

those crying kids

You remember those crying kids who buggered up the camera?

I fiddled with it and was able to get these bad shots, but at least now it works. Look at those tears and serious faces.

I sent them back on the assignment yesterday. This time they made it work.

j.scott grand: My new e-chapbook: Billy's Topless

j.scott grand: My new e-chapbook: Billy's Topless:

jscottgrand:

So, I've thrown together a Kindle chapbook containing four of my short stories.
It's called Billy's Topless and is a teaser for my book-length collection of stories, Trash and Vaudeville, that will be coming out at the end of October.

The chapbook format is fun because it's a quick read and…

You should get this appetizer and support j. scott grand. Damn it.

you are faced with a dilemma: m&m peanuts; red wine; water. what do you do?

you are faced with a dilemma: m&m peanuts; red wine; water. what do you do?