Hiding Hearts From The Rain

The rain has come, landing softly in silent rhythms. Silently enough to keep us awake at night without anger. We breathe like the rain falls, afraid that the slightest interruption may cause a crack in the sky, or crack our chests open again spilling out our depraved longings for America. So we keep the sheets up to our neck.
The rain can do such a thing to a man and his woman. The way it stirs you up, makes your head crazy until you're sitting cross-legged on your bed, sheets around your waist, looking your lover in her wide eyes, and she is willing to listen to you and love you because you have an idea, a mad introspection, a daring translation of the heart. And so you translate: I miss America terribly. I know a guy back in Ohio, and a way to make some money.
But you've done it before and now you know better. You know not to let the rain speak for you. Nobody really knows a guy in Ohio, and you certainly don't know how to make money.
As for America, the rain will tell you that everyone is having a good time and is moving on in their lives. Everyone is a postcard image, a childhood memory.
But we know now that no one is moving on or is having a good time; they're all crawling like spiders trying to scratch it out from day to day. So when the rain falls silently like this, we tuck into the web we have scratched out for ourselves, and we think of all the rain tucked into all the pockets of the earth and how god-damned crazy everybody will be should we lower the sheets, expose our hearts and crack open the sky.

I Got Nothin'

Can't come up with a decent story lately. I won't call it writer's block, but something is in the way. Got no substance right now. Eh. Won't spoil ya. For the time being, here is what's going on around here:

The owner of the school died in a scuba diving accident. Nobody knows who is in charge now, employees have started to hate one another, and we all take it out on the IT guy. This boat is definitely sinking. This IT guy should be able to fix something, anything, but the server keeps crashing and without the monolith we are doomed! We tell him he has one job and he can't do it, and that his interpersonal skills need improvement. "Of course," he says, "Which is why I work with machines. I can't stand people. " Now we think he is doing it on purpose, and we keep a closer watch on the IT guy rather than our students. Did I mention this ship is sinking?
Today we met to discuss who can design a curriculum since the academic coordinator just quit. Instead we blamed the printer, and that if it ever worked we could maybe teach a planned lesson, so fuck curriculum, and what about this IT guy? He can't even fix the printer. Then, shortly after the meeting there was a shootout in front of the school. We all ran to look, secretly hoping the IT guy got it in the gut. Instead it was some ragged favela kids in an awry car hijack, but since the IT guy had nothing to do with it we cared little and went in our own directions. Not sure what anybody else did, but I ended up drunk on wine and painting my neighbor's toenails.

Loam

The last I heard from Zillmann was a few months ago. He was writing mad poetry about Mars and working in a plant nursery. We spoke recently and he said he has been digging his hands in the fresh loam. I told him it was vile to say such a phrase, but he insisted the loam is where his hands have been. I countered by telling him that if I ever bothered to find out what the hell loam is, I may congratulate him on his loam. But for now I will keep my eyes set upon this bloated dog on the sunny side of the road hoping that Zillmann will keep his loamy hands to himself.
Been on this bus for too long. Somewhere between Only God Knows Where and a Borracharia. I feel all these people have a right to be on this bus because they need to be on this bus. They need to be somewhere, and hopefully soon. Maybe it's work. Or maybe family. But it's important for them to get there.
I have nowhere to be. And I tell myself that is a good thing. Some kind of Buddhist load of shit about not being owned by material obligations, and letting go, yet I feel queer and nauseus with these thoughts. And it could be because I am writing while in a moving vehicle, but maybe I have reached a time in my life where traveling has become tiring revolutions around the anywheres of the world. I am no longer shocked by culture, wealth, poverty, or landscape. I understand that we live in different places and that we eat different foods, that water falls and deserts dry, and the hills are high and the valleys are low.
What blows my mind more than anything is that we are alive. That on this bus we have all achieved, up to this point, a moderate success in not dying. Waking up is a tremendous miracle. Throughout our experiences, at any time, the introduction of one unneccessary particle to one ordinary situation can shatter everything. A displaced particle can make this bus driver kill us all, or such a particle can cause the man next to me go for my gringo throat at the next rest stop. But none of this will happen. We will still drink wine and eat bread; this is miraculous. We are alive while phantoms circle over our bodies. Zillmann sifts through the loam and writes beautiful poetry about Mars.
Incredible.

Another Pattern

I write a lot about women. But it's mostly because I write when I am in trouble. When I am in trouble I need a parachute, and kisses make the best ones.

More Lives Than You'll Ever Know

There is a woman out there who I love dearly. I have said it out loud before, but only when I am close to the floor. It is much easier to squash such a thing when it's that low.
Well, see, I love her now a whole lot. I didn't really before. I mean, I did, but well, I was stupid. I would fuck around a lot. I thought different pussy was always gonna be different. But it always ends up the same. Usually mad at me.
So, as the story goes, I got her sister pregnant.
Did I mention she had--not her sister, but Eilene--has had two abortions for me? Simply because I asked her to, and she loved me. But I didn't really love her, even though I do, but not really at the time. So, ya, I fuck around and I started doing it with her sister. And like I said, her sister gets pregnant. I guess I got one hell of a seed. Christ. Anyhow, I decided the right thing to do would be to tell Eilene.
I brought out the Teacher's whiskey, and I had her sit with me on the floor. We had a few drinks. Maybe six or so. She started telling me that we should probably stop drinking like this. I asked her if she would like to move up to the table. But that wasn't what she meant.
She continued on about how we were killing ourselves or something, and what the hell was on my mind? Just then I remembered this phrase from our little Portuguese phrase book--we used to try to learn one phrase a night. It was under the emergency section.
"Nao ha antidoto para essa vemeno."
So, I said it. My face got sweaty. I guess I panicked. What that means is "there no antidote for this poison."
She slapped my leg like I was playing around. "I love that one! Like, why would anyone ever need that phrase? I'll drink to that," she exclaimed. But that wasn't what I was trying to say. So then I came clean. I told her how I fuck around and got her sister pregnant.
She stood up and over me looking horribly massive and powerful. Then she said with a clenched, low voice, "well, kill it like you killed mine."
I don't know where she is now.
I've been stuck to the floor for a few days. It is easy to squash such a thing when it's that low.