Nano 2014

I did something else this year, and won!

2 days ago, ahead of schedule!

The Game, Klutzes and Everything/ Cupid & Psyche DRAFT

Swimming
He wants to confess
She's blindfolded
Look, I'm just a guy who-
Hey, this is the greatest game ever!! Don't stop!!
But you know I'm not your brother!
That doesn't matter anymore...
She turns away
It's a fun game, isn't it?
She was desperately trying to get him to agree that it WAS a game.
He hasn't made up his mind!! He stammers, doesn't know what to say or claim. Nervous because he doesn't have a PLAN, stammering the way she recognized well from all those board rooms. Even when he stopped the low tone in his voice, she KNEW who it was.

Earlier
He sets up the Cupid/Psyche routine
She joins in, like those stories we learned in Latin class!!
Latin class?
Remember? You had Sr Celestine and then I had her 2 years later!!
Wow! You have a great memory.
She went to an all girl high school. Sr Cekestine hadnt taught a boy in her life!!
So the point is, you must always keep the blindfold on. At least when I'm here. You can hear when my car comes in the driveway, I'll give you a minute.
She wondered if he was planning to rape her.
She wondered how much she could convince herself it wasn't rape. She tried to think of all those screwball comedies of the 1930's. The Lady Eve, Design for Scandal, all the Astaire & Rogers pictures.
One party tries to seduce the other for a bet or something to do with a newspaper story. Just when it happens, when the victim begins to fall, the other has to pull away. And then of course, the other's plan falls through.
It was possible for him to love her.
And thus, for her to live him. Or grow to live him. At least enough to enjoy sex. Or not hate it.
And so, if she made up her mind to do whatever she needed to, just to get out of the situation.
The bondage was mildly interesting, she was pretty sure that she could work herself up.
As long as she didn't picture The Suit.

Pen Happiness

HDT in Brooklyn

The more I love
The more I need

African band playing rhythm

"How do you make sense of these objects??"

Mod glowing things

Goosebumps on Her Shoulder

The house didn't have air conditioning and she could tell that the air outside got humid and heavy. She could hear the window off to the left of her chair.  It was open and when it started to rain, she was entranced by the music in the sound.  She knew the air moved more freely outside the window and sometimes-but not as often as she would suspect-she ached to be outside.

She was a good little captive.  She made sure to keep her back arched when he came in.  Sex was her biggest concession, and she admitted to herself that she didn't mind giving in.  It was her strongest weapon.

At first, she still wasn't sure what was happening everytime he entered the room, but she did know it was electric. After all, any straight boy would be excited to have a naked woman in his house.

What bothered her was his distance.  He would come in, presumably just to look at her.  Sometimes she managed to keep the sheet covering her, to protect from a random breeze. Sometimes he would come in, and pull it down, tugging it down past her breasts.  Another time, he pulled it off quickly, in a violent motion.  She kept expecting him to touch her, to grab her.  It felt strange to have her breasts exposed and to feel only the air.  She knew he was watching her and expected to at least hear his quiet groans, expected him to jerk off to the sight of her body.

But he just remained quiet.

Which she thought was spookier than anything.  What kind of fantasies could he be harboring, if they weren't about sex?

 There was always the possibility that he would be turned on only by violence, or pain, or the thought of murdering her.  She knew that if that were the case, she would have nothing to defend herself with.  And so she tried to keep it out of her mind.  Besides, there was a timidity in his silences, something gentle in his breath. That was what she seized on.

The more he kept quiet, the younger he became in her mind, until he was a young teenager (his body had seemed skinny when he carried her up the stairs). She liked to imagine him as being terrified.  A boy who had recently grown into his body and wasn't sure what to do with the prize.

But one day, after he had come in, and pulled the sheet off, he began to walk towards her.

He walked towards her left side, getting in between her and the sound of the rain.  He walked behind her and then around her right side, circling her. Her head followed him slightly, involuntarily. He kept going, for a few revolutions, getting himself and her slightly dizzy, finally stopping at her left shoulder.

Wondering how to get into her, how to begin, he reached out to her with his fingertips.  They barely brushed her skin, and immediately gave her goosebumps.  Gently, he began exploring her like a desert, the bone at the base of her neck.  Its hollows and smooth edges. He took each inch of territory gently and slowly.  His fingers slid up her neck to her chin.  She responded, a reflex, but not a motion of fulling pulling away. She was trying hard to control herself, but it was making her wet and excited.

She could hear his breath growing louder, increasing in intensity, heavier. He was getting excited too.

Slowly, slowly, agonizingly slowly, his fingers reached her ear. He pulled some of her hair out of the way, not fiercely, but gently, almost lovingly. He extended the moment as long as he could.

"I'm scared," he said, in a whisper.

Then he pulled away, his fingers losing contact with her skin, his fingers withdrawing from her hair. And in the next moment, she heard the door close, him going down the stairs and then his car driving away.

Her brow furrowed beneath the blindfold. She thought out loud, "What is he scared of?  Himself?"

Thrown Out Leftover Chinese Food

I really love living off of other people’s missing moments.  I love being in DH’s house when she’s not there.  To water her plants. I look at all the food she throws away. Once I ate some.  Okay, many times.  If it smells fine, really, it’s such a waste.  She can do that, throw away food, she has that kind of money, a regular job.  Shit, its tenure, which means she doesn’t ever have to worry about being fired.

I worry about being fired all the time.

Not about not being good enough (okay, that was an early worry) not being “liked”, because I know a woman in an office has to be liked.  Not a bitch.  Not like those older bitches who look like kindergarten teachers ready to scold.  

Once I found a bunch of Valentines in the trash.  Messages from her students.  Heartfelt ones, from her “special needs kids”.  The ones she talks about so much.  She doesn’t really care. I suppose it’s something that she waits til she gets home to throw them out.  Not much, I suppose.

I’m just glad I’m not one of those kids who hopes to get some love out of her.

When I was eating her thrown-away Chinese food, I thought about HIm.

My brother.

My poor, lost Brother.

95% dead.  5% chance of him being alive somewhere.  Escaped.  Maybe jail.  Hopefully jail.  They at least have a vague reason to keep him alive, to keep him from hurting himself.  Of that 5%, maybe 1% would be him alive on his own.  Escaped on his own.  Run-away.

And all I have to go on is the tone of voice. When I asked what happened, and they sat me down.  

He’s gone to a better place.

Dead?

They looked at one another.

One started to say something and then the other cut in

“Yes.  Dead.”

“Where is he buried? I want to visit his grave!”

“There is no grave,”

“Ashes.  Only ashes”

“Where are they?  I want to see!”

Funny the impetus that we the living have.  Tangible proof of change of state.

Regardless, they had nothing to produce.

A few years later, as they lay dying, there was more.

Mc-Something

McLaine.

If he lived, I imagine he’s traveling all across the country.  All the time.  Following me.  Blazing a path for me. Exploring all the roads.  And when I drive, when I hit any new patch of highway, I imagine that he’s been there before me.  That at one intersection, somewhere, I’ll find his home. And he’s come out of nowhere to greet me. I just have to keep my eyes out for Him.

If he lived, I imagine he’d be poor.  Poor, but resourceful.  He was always a smart guy.  BUt terrible with people.  I was the only one who understood him.  And somehow he never wanted to talk to anyone else.

So he’s off on a highway somewhere.

And when I eat someone else’s thrown out Chinese food, I imagine he’d be smiling.

Cheever's Swimmer, Burt Lancaster

I don't usually fall in love with dead people.

Okay, if you've been paying ANY attention to my story, you'll realize this is patently FALSE.

I'm not even in denial.

I was slowly coming home from Kendall, winding my way home through the streets.  (During that mean-cold, dirty-snow winter, it was often my favorite part of the day) I did this slowly to work and slowly back.  I'd like to report that I saw the marquee in Harvard Square and ditched work for the day.  Or maybe I'd like to report that I saw it and then drove to work, did what I needed and then escaped.

Regardless, sometime in March, they held a marathon of the movie "The Swimmer" (1965, Burt Lancaster, look for Cheever's cameo during one of the party scenes). I'd like to remember it as a 24 hour marathon.  Or maybe even it was up for a week.  I'd like to remember that i was caught up in it. That I left and wandered through life, and then came back and came back and came back.

The main character is delusional, and possibly a drunk, but obsessed with the idea of swimming Home.  The "emerald river" of his neighbor's pools leads him through a series of lives and events.  All one day which somehow morphs into spring-summer-winter.

Like Henry David Thoreau, who lived on Walden for 2 years, 2 months and 2 days and turned it into a book split into the 4 seasons.  One year, one book.  The same thing with his "Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers" 2 weeks laid out into 7 days, written over several years, even when he was at Walden.  An ode to his dead brother, and he never mentions his name.

But it caught me as a Swimmer.  I am a person who gets drunk on swimming, whose previous life was spent as a mermaid.  I related to him so much.  a man with only his swimming trunks (not even those at times) and maybe a martini or two.  As a Simplifier, I could even go without the alcohol.  Frankly, I only use it as an excuse to go crazy.  As in, "I was drunk, so I can't be held responsible" or "I'm drinking, so I can say whatever I want".  I'm a one-drink gal, but I nurse it long enough and exaggerate the consequences.  Usually when I say these phrases, I have a drink in my hand, but am 99% sober. (EVENT Like the time I . . . )  Some people drink to relax, I drink as a crutch for insanity.

So I KNEW what he meant when he made a ridiculous assertion, and kept repeating it.  Even though everyone THOUGHT he was crazy.  You can tell from the first scene that somehow there is no home for him to go to.  It's the enthusiasm in his voice and his general attitude; he can't be stopped and he's happy.  Other people can watch, but as long as they run away before the end, they won't have to witness the scene and be implicated.  I understood that too.

Sometime during the movie, during one of the many shots of him flying underwater, my body made up its mind.  It would swim across Massachusetts and probably take me along with it.  I suppose there was some subliminal discussion going on.

"Swim!"
"It's too cold!"
"It's practically summer!! Dive in!"
"There's nowhere to swim!"
"You are 10 minutes from the river and 20 from salt water.  The state you live in is shaped like an arm, gathering water towards the rectangular body."
"I suppose there are a bunch of pools I could check out"
"WATER!!"
"But I hate the chlorine!"
"There are rivers and streams and lakes and ponds.  Everywhere, everything is melting! Go with the flow!"
"Stop the Corporate babble!"
"A babbling brook.  The Charles.  Walden.  Have you used that Groupon for the kayak yet? You could make it across Massachusetts after the thaw.  Yet another thing to do on your way to Springfield.  And Northampton.  And Stockbridge. A whole new way to see the state!"

You make all your private phone calls from your boss' corner office when he's not in.  Which is every day with an R in it. It looks down on a funny little inlet.  During the spring and summer, an entreprenurial canoe and kayak rental business sets up.  They'll never succeed until they get an App.  And then they can get venture funding.  And then they'll be a start-up. And then they can scale; create setups in every major city with a waterway.  More diversions for more people in my Demographic; Young Singles Who Work in Tech and Perversely Enjoy Outdoor Sports (Presumed 75% Male Audience; not the competitive segment, include women for the "Dating" potential of the Activity)

{{{Even my body was weary of the trips on the Mass Pike out to Springfield on Mondays.  Fridays were my travel day, where all I had to do was hand in my report, call the client and call my boss. I made calls, parked on the side of the road wherever I was.  I tried to keep it scenic.  The parking lot of an Old Mill Restaurant.  I sat staring at it for an hour, nodding as my boss heard himself talk.  When I went inside, it was a time capsule.}}

I've never ached to do something so much. Only during the movie did I realize that this conversation had been going on between my mind and body all winter. I itched to get out of my clothes then and there and dive into the Charles River.  For a moment, like waking from a dream, it seemed entirely likely and possible.  I could go outside, take off my shoes and dive into the first body of water I could find.

But when I left the theater, I was hit by the cold air and the idea that I had to find my car.  And even in the car, I had to find the river.  Which the car would only see as a bridge.  In Boston, there are few belvederes to rest your car while you go for a swim.  And parking by the river is a hassle.  And there were too many people around who would interpret your actions as suicidal, rather than anything life affirming.

This would take planning.

(First Person Narrative? Woman's POV DIARY??)

Last Page

When she meets him, after the rescue.

"So this is you. Hunh." She thinks, surprised at the sudden quiet that envelops this moment she had thought about for 18 years.

He nods.  Smiles.  He wants to reach out to her, she wants to reach out to him, but they both know how dangerous touching can be. Besides, he is anchored on the car's trunk; the Evil is still locked inside but has stopped kicking for the moment.

“I’m not safe anymore” echoes between them. But then, she's certain it's only coming from her, and only as a reflex. He saved her. Her body was weary from the adreneline of that unknown space in the darkness. She was certain she would stay alive, until the moment she was certain she was going to be killed.

He was dressed in a gray sweatshirt and jeans.  Baggier than she imagined, sagging, a few days growth of stubble that did not blend with the bearded parts of him.

She remembered the slight astygmatism.  Wondered all her life if it was an indication of schizophrenia.  A telltale sign of CRAZY.

But he seemed what he was.  A gentle giant version of himself.  A grown man, HIs beautiful blonde curls might have had a hint of grey, but there was no balding that she could see. He needed a haircut, although his hair might be naturally unruly no matter what.

That glowing smile of his, the one she thought about in the darkness, it was the same.