Sunday, May 20, 2018

Corpus Callosum #14...


Winter has finally abated, and I find myself emerging from its chthonic clutches like a hare evading the hounds. A little worse for the wear, as they say, but worlds better than my rock-bottom trajectory of November. What have I been doing for four months? I was not writing, not producing. Hardly even suffering. And by suffering, I mean creating.
But I have endured—that is for goddamn sure. Endured the double-harness of the office job and freelancing. The office proper was a gladiatorial ring on some days, with me gnashing my teeth and doing my best not to break tiny Kathy in twain with her outlandish last-minute edits. Endured the nuisance of the holidays, snowstorms, traffic to induce psychopathic urges, an interminable spell of arctic air desiccating my meat-hooks and my face, hyperinflated energy bills after meter misreads, financial disputes over such matters, musculoskeletal agony, sleep deprivation fit to upend anyone’s sanity, a swindling theft from my own place of residence, the flu. The fucking flu, which stress invited into my veins via the hospitable grace of cortisol. The flu is something for the weak and infirm, the elderly, something for enfeebled coffin-dodgers. But me? What with my ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound, with my adamantium bones and nuclear-regenerative physiology, discovered that the flu had my number. …It was a divine gift, on reflection. Fever-struck, aching like a tenderized slab of meat, I could only sit on my couch and do nothing. I binge-watched The Twilight Zone on Hulu. Sitting there in four layers of clothes, Blaise Pascal came to mind because he was right: All of humanity's problems stem from man's inability to sit quietly in a room alone. He was especially right about me, and my aching adamantium bones.
For three days I did nothing. In my fevered dreams, I found Jocelyn with my cock buried as far as I could push it into her para-virginal cunt. Jocelyn, who came so hard that, during her arrival, she went momentarily blind.
“I can’t see,” she said. “I can’t see!” She waved her hand in front of her face.
While still slogging away inside of Jocelyn, I explained to her that Masters and Johnson once researched the matter of her copulatory blindness and found that parts of the female brain will shut off during orgasm and that this was quite natural, everything is okay, and now I’m going to squirt a few white ropes of fun across your exquisitely embellished tits because they are not ropes of love, and because: What did you expect?
And as I emerge from this grand scene of fuckery on top of Jocelyn—this tortured aperitif from my spank-bank—one splintery claw descends upon my face, with the attendant Steeve gazing over me. I swipe this feline cactus off the bed, and then sweep a puddle of toxic sweat from my sheets.
I roll to the starboard side of what was once a seagoing vessel on a florid current of nectar, although it wasn’t Jocelyn’s nectar, but Kelli’s. And that ship is long lost in the benthic zone of an icy deep…

Saturday, May 19, 2018

Corpus Callosum #13...

On Tuesday the boss gave me a substantial raise, a promotion to an entirely new pay-scale. Plus a $1000 bonus to boot.
“For one thing, you were instrumental in the office move,” Bill said in his forthright, even-handed way. “Overall, I believe it’s fair and I think you earned it.”
His voice reminds me of someone named Kermit, but his six-foot-three frame, square jaw, and salt-and-pepper goatee reminds me only of someone named Bill.
He is our Senior Research Scientist and Center Director and now my new supervisor, having handed Carol a pink slip. Whether he believes this boon was earned or deserved, and whether even the whims of the Great Magnet himself holds this to be true or not, it brought to me not a moment of pride, nor a smile to my face. I sit in my swanky new corner office, twenty-one stories above the belvedere, the muddy, swollen river, peering north over Clarksville, Sellersburg… wondering how this came to be.
It occurs to me that I am not comfortable with feeling content. What would bring pride, bliss, joy? Publication maybe. Fornication—only under distinct circumstances. A meaningless fuck for the sake of fucking is only a fuck, after all. Anyone can find a lay if they take the time to lift a stone or two, and then feast on the carrion.
What will bring bliss? Integration inward, to the Self, surely. But I, like most Americans—steeped in my general retardation, in my cultural nascence and soaring hubris—do not know where to begin.