Expectations Rain

Only I believe in my God and only those who believe in Him shall be saved; my god!

To say I wish you were here means: I love you (albeit_: I lost half my faith  in a lispy terrorist womb).

He’s developed a(n) habitual notion these last couple of years that certain things he expects to occur, will, in all actuality, never, regardless of aim or action, turn out the way he’d thought. Such things are neither pervasive nor, if one chose, uncountable, and this should immediately dispel any suggestion of perverted fate farms, or indeed, ignorance of predominant predictability. Such thoughts are both infrequent and arbitrary, not necessarily recurring, yet also formatted insofar as they may only arise in certain situations, most notably those where an outcome’s possibilities are ostensibly of a dual nature: an underdog icing the champ, dreaded insidious female ambivalence (male pride and defiance), life and death, fear and – an actual opposite – contentment; success and failure (the perennial inbetweener), fight or flight (give up?) and dizzy prognostications of the intervening emptiness waiting patiently to be  filled by the broody hallucinations of a drunken junkie in-patient, before all bets are paid out in currencies of dust.

I’ll wear a cape, if that’s my fancy, I’ll tear it off, when the arguments start, we’ll stand naked, and you’ll have made that nice curry, you thought you couldn’t eat, let’s say many moons ago.

Among force-twelve volcanic torrents smearing chemically blackened walls hexed with positive malice and parsimonious avarice – comes real rain. Both climatic coincidence and an ignorant, drowsy feather of irony had me thinking at the time of drought: Russia – that big paranoid myth, and the north of this partitioned land, specializing in a time-specific reproductive possibility. To be clear: people had been worrying about their ability to grow rice. Other people had been worrying about the extent of their pecuniary marble bathroom satisfaction while others had been worrying about the cleanliness of their air; everybody worried about the two faces in the mirror: the external and internal image, twins only as much as a bear and a cobra, never even considering what the Greeks didn’t mention with regards to a seven-faced coin. But of course, worry not, for when the whole house is on fire, as luck may have it, it never rains but it pours.

A well-pressed epilated sky blue shirt hangs rigid beneath a smaller than average pea-shaped head holding an unusual offering of brittle raven hair shaved skin-deep around small piggy protruding ears before merging dramatically with a dark and wavy, glistening oversized bouffant. Blue northern country music plays smoothly and intentionally through the digitized speakers of a grey and pristine faux-leather taxi interior as tormented and hunched motorcycle riders draped in translucent pink and blue plastic cloaks pass and are passed, facially hydrophobic, ungrateful to my god, to mothers and fathers; wives and no others. There is both cleanliness and an aura of calm to this weird man. His position is clear and confident. It’s been ten years and a month since it happened and nothing, not a whisper from anywhere or anyone. He’s home free in this life (yet) it’s the ultimate return home where the bills are piled high. So I take out my thing from its black synthetic skin and he immediately gazes back in the mirror, anxious to put picture to the sound of its zip. His eyes wander its length and girth devoid of emotion but for the slightest eyebrow raise I interpret as approval. He lowers his stare, resumes his automated petro-dance past obstacles and street waves, thinking: I’m a professional. I’m a businessman. I’m doing some good, I’m doing something important. I’m not a homosexual, I’m not a murderer.

We spend most of our lives going somewhere yet so rarely do we realize we are already there… usually to the cubical of superfluous internet updates and ultimate boredom where minions obsess over dehydrating growth; to fourteen-hour days and a name on a door – snappy, ambitious, nothing wrong with that, no longer head-spun among teenage glimpses of northern lights and false freedom… And in a rush and a frenzy, a stressed-out smiley grimace to a man in a uniform beyond a lift, a quick fire tan and a hundred-dollar fifteen-minute manicure, we hail million mile taxis to Thanksgive our absence, always arriving late, always the same excuse, the one they’re proud of us for. But of course we never really arrive because we’re already there, and, more so, long gone before we get there. And to be fair, if I ever get there, I’ll have a side-slanted itinerant one-eyed Iguana-stare – on the padlock.

The gods have spoken, the gods shed tears, the gods are upset, the gods the gods, fuck the gods: Indeed, I’ll believe it when I see it, may as well, for the most part, read: I’ll see it when I believe it. And so – to cut a short story long – I believe in time and I believe in adjustments, and I believe in the comfortable furniture placed directly in front of the TV I binned last christmas.

Love is a mood, as delusional as countries or jobs, and as good as it gets until Love 2.0.

Her blood doesn’t flow through my own. There is no desire to sing regrettable small-hour sorrowful ballads outside Parisian windows or anywhere come dawn; to fix things neither broken nor overly triumphant. Her ears don’t hear the early morning comedic whistle of my anxious self-humorous death procrastinations, and, anyway, she’s paved all the side-streets in diamonds and pearls and I know everything and nothing of such dire genuflections.


Sometimes you only know that people ‘stayed-for-a-while’ (for want of a better deodorant) are still alive and well when they email you some raucous syntax about the melting-white-labia-crystallized nature of the pope’s digital disguise… And so maturity means I’ll meet very few of them ever again, and I usually think of my Self.

Chance would be a fine thing. Is there a chance for us? Is there an opportunity to wipe the frost from these frozen fixated faces and let the raindrops be warm today, warm enough to carry electrotherapeutic temptations which not only turn these intransigently life fearing, god-servile stiff-veined exhibits into quintessential mountaineers of old, but raindrops which go beyond transparent steel, raindrops just warm enough to melt all the tears that – now so long ago – merged ice within ice just as it had done in that shocking moment of realization? Warm raindrops, providing a seamless beauty of life once more, to the death-hardened soil and the swarming, howling sands. Raindrops: a chance to survive just long enough to sensationalize the candid punch line again.

A four-year-old with a dandelion-citrus-twisted Tallahassee bow in her hair charts the progress of an oversized blue helium-filled balloon as it emancipates itself energetically from the repressively-owned air of the people’s republic. From below, the balloon does as expected, as was researched, planned and prepared – it ascends skywards, or should it be said, nowhere, for where exactly begins the sky? On this day that sky has a lazy grey Vitamin D deficiency – the insides of an old Continental quilt – but still, cylindrically stretched and way taller than vertigo, she looks upwards and forwards and ponders her… father.

My thoughts immediately hark it back to those dead days of inspiration (yesterday, if you think of it, is kind of like death – just imaginings, perhaps open-ended questions); wondering if the huge clouding swathes of dust-like grey combustion would come monsoon carpeting from the West the way they do now. Actually, what I wonder very simply is if people were happier slept under corrugated makeshift shelters, roads unpaved, a greater tendency to reproduce, crash, drown, demote and die. Now it’s all busyness to business, fear-eyed and ridiculous peaceful competition, the hope, the factor in, like there is a life in that big expansive lens surging warhead-like through an explosive sky called: an indisputable work ethic, an indisputable lifetime, and an indisputable realization of a need to ostentatiously succeed . Such freedoms are both our City on the Hill, and Hell. Marx was close to appearing in a TV shopping channel commercial – not a lot of people know that; selling a shooting range of possibilities, gun at the head of the ad man. America knows little of itself, by and large. Britain worries about replacing itself with a robot of itself – not worrying that it already may have happened. And Europe well well. So, argue me, a country or continent is a futile and highly efficient antonym, a vehicle for distrust, at commendable best a deliverer of an expensive passport which allows one to leave and return with glitzy dancing eyes. At worst, perhaps, a country is a prison where freedoms attest to torture and citizens are beheaded in daylight for wanting to eat.

The mirrored buildings approach and it’s been coincidentally Chicago lately, coincidental Chicago born within to punctuate summer. A swarm of B’s to follow a swarm of C’s (I know what I mean December Jones).

We meet the cloud between these monolithic mirrored facades which reflect against each other, each reflecting a different face of thy cloud. My Chicago for a moment – gone, and it begins to speckle the windows, one elephant, two elephant, three elephant: streams of water-cries flume diagonally, almost horizontally across the glass, blurring my bitter straight jacket from a background of insecure security, thought gone; for sure though, they were happier then, he’s wearing yellow shoes.

I can imagine the buses as miniatures, collectibles, children’s toys, but there right in front of me they don’t seem real. There is animation in the faces speaking into plastic cuboids (what is fuel? they say). Thoughts are going that way. Even this beating inside my chest, this breathing game, seems somewhat unjustifiable, blatantly impossible, and maybe it is. New apartment blocks everywhere. Anger. Anger on minivan rides. Teenage schoolboys nervously break voice: voices, wily, creaturey half-homosexual excitable monologues. Friday evening the traffic jams up leaving the city, blocking the escape. And it seems like it will never move, this engine procession huddled up like penguins in the snow, four kilometers in an hour isn’t good and the sky water is culpable, always to chaos, arguments and excuses. And the tension builds with every red light, you can see ….They’re all asleep, and you’re awake becoming more furious by the second. All his friends come up to him at the end, laughing, kidding, and say it was all just a dream and of course he has to ask with the exhausted, stretched tone of a kidney punch: ‘Then who the fuck are you then?’ and they say in an accent unfamiliar ‘Use your imagination son, use your basic instinct. Your time has come, your time is now, the motorcar fate is your portal to love. So just stand back, watch this in slow motion, be drowned in this storm, or walk towards light.’

‘I’ll do neither,’ I quickly reply, noting a purple moth, heavy on its way.

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