Two Pieces

[Canofceleri]

Hail Mary

 

Sing my name in a falsetto with a mouthful of my seminal plasma, wait until it coagulates and say eleven Hail Mary's--one for each inch of my dick.

[Canofceleri]

Life and other things

 

 

 

OUTSIDE

 

“I was reading a piece in the Wall Street Journal about goofballs, these pills people take to feel high,” a man says.

 

Another man to him says, “I was reading that. They said that a proper recreational dose of the stuff kicks in first behind the knees, in the meat of the hind-thighs or calves.”

 

“Well,” the first man says, “in my experience it hits you right in the asshole first thing. Then, they say, it's like clockwork—like kind and faithful time, like a gold plated pocket watch.”

 

“My puckered asshole thanks you kindly, time. I thank you kindly,” the second one says before addressing me. He asks me what the f*ck I am looking at. It's my fault, I think, I stand out. I was supposed to keep walking by the stoop the two men were perched on, but when I overheard them I felt compelled to stop and listen.

 

“Nothing,” I say, “I just couldn't help hearing what you were talking about. I've got to tell you, I am very high right now. There is no better feeling than too much drugs, is there?”

 

“Except perhaps even more drugs,” the one who snapped at me says.

 

“Exactly!” I say.

 

“Sometimes you've got to show that f*cking thing who is boss.”

 

“What thing?” I ask.

 

“Your liver.”

 

I had nine grams of acetaminophen to go with my oxycodone today, but I still promoted the utilization of cold water extraction. “It's healthy,” I say and then casually bid them farewell. I must go on to my psychoanalyst, I tell them, and it's true.

 

 

INSIDE

 

 

During my analysis I refer to my analyst as father and he calls me son. The first question he asked me in our very first session twenty-four years ago was about my father's status—“Living or dead?” he asked. I knew then that we were a match for each other when he said that if it had been my mother that had died of a drug overdose I would be calling him mother. “And if both parents are dead,” he said, “you will call me Mary.” I tell you this for selfish reasons, because I understand that there are areas of my psyche hidden from me and perhaps you might have an insight. Do not hold back, you will not offend me, and if you manage to I will pretend to be okay.

 

“I don't want to do anything. I have no motivation. I'm pissed off, more less.”

 

“Why are you pissed?”

 

“I have wants that aren't being met. Nothing is how I'd like it to be. I am tired of being me, I'd rather fertilize a damn tree.”

 

“We're going to have one of those honest times now. Is that okay with you?”

 

“The ones that you allude to so often, like when you tell me you could blow my mind with just one of your observations?”

 

“I think you're ready. Or rather, maybe I am ready now. You've been my most boring patient for years now.”

 

“Thanks. Says something good about my level of sanity, I guess.”

 

“If that's how you choose to look at it. Are you ready now?

 

“Okay. Basically, son, you are bored of being bored. You want things, but you are lazy. Instead of being productive so that you may realize your desires you allow yourself to be paralyzed. You've been paralyzed for a long time, at times catatonic. You are miserable—in more than one facet of your existence you are almost a complete lack of mass. Though you are quite fat and that is one big problem, actually. Your wants are for both the material and the intangible. You need quality software for your quality hardware and the finest bed for sleeping, the best food on your stomach, yet you long to have what it takes—the sheer balls—to live the life of an ascetic. You are spoiled and stupid. You question the intrinsic value of life and worry that your existence lacks meaning or purpose when you could easily reason, as any superior thinker would, that those concepts of value and purpose are immaterial. Of course there is no meaning to your life, if you are looking for some cosmic confirmation that you matter. You're only just matter on that level. But you are a human and you must stop fighting your nature if you want peace and stop torturing yourself with the wrong questions. Life and other things can only be ascribed meaning by a mind capable of conceiving the notion of meaning. Nothing matters but your happiness, and no one else. And if your happiness is contingent on committing altruistic acts for the others around you to see that is fine, but you are still a selfish animal. Do not be bothered by this. If you must over-analyze things then you must keep going until you rationalize your existence onto a pocket of sunshine and stop there.”

 

Shut up, dad! I am thinking. I don't want to hear that right now.

[Rhoda]

The thing that interests me most about this is the styling - the two halves are written completely different. From what I'm picking up, the first segment seems snappy, almost impatient. These people can't wait until the other has spoken before they start. The lines are very choppy, very matter-of-fact, leaving little room for negotiation. "There's nothing better than drugs". It's a controversial statement and already you've cut out any option for disagreement. Not like they would.

 

When we go "inside", things change slightly. Things get a little tighter, and a little more rich when it comes to description and imagery. The "shut up dad" line tells me that the paragraph is either your (or the character, I never know with you Frank) thought, which is why it seems more fluid than the dialogue. I'm getting the vibe that all you want to do is think and maybe "dad" held you back in some respect. That, or he certainly felt you did too much of it.

 

Course, I'm most likely wrong - I always am with you, I can never get you sussed! Either way, I enjoyed the way I was lured into two different styles. I have to say, everytime I click on something of yours I expect another Dysfunktionals...

[Canofceleri]

Appreciate the feedback, Craig. It's been hard for me to write anything for awhile now, I miss it. It is frustrating for a writer to feel like they have lost their touch. Honestly, I dashed this together, though I adapted some of the dialogue in OUTSIDE from a preface I wrote for a set of stories I planned. Actually, that preface was written substantially better and was quite entertaining, but... I figure what's the point of just posting that?

 

[Rhoda]

You could say what's the point of posting anything I suppose. I know how it feels to be frustrated. I've filled books with ideas, plots and even whole stories but I haven't made the leap of developing them enough to post here. I'm glad you're feeling up to posting this though.

[Ronmar The Only]

You could always post plenty of flash fictions entitled "Things I've Heard While Walking."

 

I'd read it.

 

[Commenting on the difference between the first and second parts, the point being that I'd read just a series of random discussions]

 

 

From this exchange between the narrator and analyst, I wonder what their previous 24 years had been like. While I haven't watched all of season three, I love "In Treatment" on HBO and shall now use that as a standard for any type of therapy. The reason I wonder what there first 24 years were like is because it seems like they have these "honest talk" sessions fairly routinely. Now, going by the show, giving your own opinion about a person, in a sense pushing them to a solution instead of allowing them to find it for themselves, is not the right path, though it is sometimes chosen.

 

I wonder if their other "honest talks" go like this where the analyst points out the narrators various problems. I would like to know what has pushed him to give this talks, did something happen that day? Is he responding to the narrator or someone else?

 

Not that these points need or should be addressed in this flash fiction. They are just things I think of when reading it.

 

The only thing I was surprised by was the revelation that the narrator was fat. I would have thought the two men on the street would have commented on that. Like, when they say that drugs would damage his live, they would have made an offhand comment that the drugs aren't the only thing bad for him. Maybe he should lay off the cheeseburgers and strawberry milkshakes.

 

As always, an interesting piece from you.