July 1, 2011

            I would like to write my city. First my city, then this city, then this street, and then this table with the bowl of yogurt sitting on it. For now, I sit on the couch in front of the table in question, and I start to write, hoping I won’t fall asleep. Here I go.

            My city is called Sofia. It is the capital of Bulgaria. It is situated in the west part of the country, and it is a weird, beautiful, and controversial city at the same time.

            A blue icon on the taskbar lights up to tell me I have just received a new email, and a little, white window slides in the lower, right side of the screen showing me a sentence from the email. In a few seconds, it slides out of the screen, leaving a dark afterimage in my eyes. I click on the email client and open the email to find that it’s the weekly newsletter from a blog I am supposed to be following. I yawn. I don’t cover my mouth with my hand because I’m alone, and with myself I try to have no secrets. I read the beginning of the newsletter but soon drop it: it compares buprenorphine to methadone and their effects in treating addiction. I am not concentrated enough to read all the charts, so I mark this article as a “read later” one. I move to another one about understanding and treating depression, but it is too intuitively obvious to keep me interested.

            I yawn and look at the clock in the bottom right corner. I still have 47 minutes to write. That’s because I’ve made a rule of writing for one hour every day. 13 minutes have passed from today’s hour, and there are 47 minutes left. I will work hard for what is left of them in order to produce a truly quality piece about my city and everything that swelled up from it to come to fill my life. But in this specific moment, I feel just slightly hungry, which, I know, will keep me from concentrating on my work. I sit up on the couch and lengthen my back. As all my dance teachers, it seems, used to say, long backs, long backs. As a response to that command we would all stretch our shoulders and send our chests far out until our spines didn’t have their natural curves anymore, lumbar and what not, but took on a single artificial, sexy curve. Thank God I took lessons from this woman who kept on telling me to drop the artificial curve till the point that she was annoying. That didn’t mean to slouch—I still kept my shoulders open and stretched, but my back was relaxed and calm. Sitting on the couch with my back nice and relaxed, I reach for the yogurt on the table. It is plain yogurt. I don’t have a spoon, so I get up and bring a spoon. I sit back down and eat spoonful of the yogurt when I realize I want jam with it. I am annoyed about having to get up again, but I leave the spoon on the table with a sigh and walk to the fridge (which is less than two meters away from the couch). My search for jam within the fridge yields two solutions: a half-full jar of strawberry jam and an almost finished jar of cherry jam. Had my only consideration been the taste, I would have chosen the cherry jam, it is simply what my taste would dictate, no rational justifications about it. But now I also have the amount of jam available to consider. The question is whether I want to eat a lot of jam or a little bit of jam. Thinking about being fit all the time, my intuitive answer points to the cherry jam. But after exploring the depths of my feelings at the time, I conclude that I want to eat more jam. To the devils with the cherry jam, I will eat it on another occasion when my ‘stay fit’ side prevails. But for now let’s enjoy all the strawberry jam trapped in that jar with a its narrow opening on the top. I yawned, then bent over the table and ate the plain yogurt and all the strawberry jam. 

June 27, 2011

            “I received the academy award for landing Boeing 384 in Hamburg on March 5, 1994. It was a heavily rainy day, but the conditions were expected to allow a safe flight.” He scratched the back of his neck absentmindedly. “According to schedule, the flight should have lasted two hours and fifteen minutes.” His neck was almost the width of his head, which gave him an adorable double, on occasions triple, chin. “At one hour and fifty-two minutes, the apparatus informed me that there was a sudden increase in air pressure approximately ten kilometers in front of us. Such signs often correspond to areas of clouds pushed close to each other, which would only cause discomfort for the passengers, which is why I tried to avoid this area of increased pressure by passing it on the right.” His fifty-something-year-old head was balding in a perfectly regular pattern. “It, however, was not formed by several clouds pressed together, although there is no way I could have known at that moment.” He delivered a scratch to his lost-in-thought neck.

“The atmospheric object in front of Boeing 384 at that moment was not a cluster of air masses of different density but was simply a tornado. When I searched for information why the tornado with such force had appeared without anyone managing to offer me a satisfactory explanation.” His eyes acquired a coldness that added a dramatic emphasis to his indignation with someone’s incompetence. “The Boeing 384 I was operating entered the tornado at a speed of 692 kilometers per hour. I did not have a clear, rationale-based solution to the situation, but I followed the instinct to dart right ahead and end this as quickly as possible. Therefore, I increased the Boeing 384’s speed till it reached the maximum and the screen issued a warning.” The scratch upon his neck this time was anxious. “An unexpected result followed. We were caught up in the eye of the tornado—the area in the center where no movement of atmospheric masses occurs.” His sparse eyebrows rose impossibly high on his forehead, and he looked funny. “The entire speed of the aircraft seemed to have been taken away by some outer power, but I still consider the impression of the aircraft’s immobility an illusion.” The certainty on the man’s face was removed and a monstrous confusion drowned out his facial features.

“A short distance from the tip of the aircraft, a lady stood and greeted me in a robe that continued well beyond her feet. Her dark hair and white cloth were motionless, as though violent winds were not whirring anywhere close to her. The dark skin stretched all over her body glistened with warmth and thunder. Her face changed as her lips parted to issue a command: Go. The next thing I knew was that the aircraft was landing on the Hamburg airport!” He laughed and applauded in disbelief.

June 25, 2011

            Today he was in a hurry. John called him about a client who asked for the ice cream cones to be delivered five days early. If they did that, he would pay add 30% more than the original price. Mark refused to move a finger to make those 450,000 ice cream cones come to life earlier before he saw the edited contract. Once he looked it over on his phone, he called several people, shouted a little bit at each one, and made them feel some inexplicable guilt because they hadn’t telepathically realized that the deal had been changed five minutes ago. Now they would work, even if it meant making the cones with their own fingers, but they knew that would result in squished ice cream cones—maybe art pieces someday but worth even less than regular, machine-made ice cream cones today.

            Mark would spend thirty more minutes in traffic before his day formally began. To help it get there, he drove through the drive-through (?) of Costa Coffee for a large cappuccino. Actually, he was about to ask to have it topped with cinnamon, but he forgot his preferences when he saw the face of the drive through worker. He did regain his memories and thoughts a little while later and soberly realized that the worker was a friend from his high school years.  Mark tried to strike up a friendly conversation, but the guy didn’t notice and kept on looking at his hands as they tidied and cleaned. 

June 23, 2011

Do It Yourself

            She woke up thirty minutes before the alarm went off. She contemplated getting up and going to work early, but in the end dismissed the opportunity. Instead, she lay on her belly and hugged the pillow. One hand sneaked underneath her body and inspected one breast, then the other. She was quite fond of her breasts. She hugged the pillow again and pretended to kiss it, acting upon the fantasy that another wet, soft mouth was massaging her tongue and lips with its tongue and lips. Her thighs moved forward into the mattress, and then back, then forward, and then back, her whole body rocked in harmony with her thighs, her breasts rubbed against the pillow, and her nipples became hard and happy from all the rubbing. She imagined a dick sliding in and out of her pussy, asking her pussy to widen when it was so tight and constricted around the hard dick head. As a result blood flowed in an emergency towards the pussy to make it pulsating and red instead of the obedient pink.

            She shifted positions and lay on her back. Her legs spread themselves and gave her access to everything that was down there. Conveniently, she was wet already. At first she touched her clitoris only. Then she put a finger in her anus, and a short while later two more fingers entered her pussy. Orgasms followed. The first one was a relief. The second one was pretty damn good. Her pussy was very sensitive now, the inside responding to every little scratch her fingers gave her. The images of one, two, or three guys fucking a girl floated around her mind, their dicks getting as deep as they could in her holes, their sperm sticking to her skin or lazily flowing out of her anus. Everything was crazy, shaking, ready to burst, craving a huge explosion followed by a black out. But the third orgasm was weird. It was good but not exactly right. She rarely went over three orgasms, but this time she wanted more. Also, it would be silly to let this overwhelming wetness go to waste. Because everything was wet now—her pussy, but also her clitoris, her anus, her hands, even the sides of her legs. She went on rubbing. The images were a little fleeting now. All of her pussy was still very responsive but desensitized. She felt herself about to come a few times but couldn’t. In the end she did, but it almost didn’t feel like an orgasm. Her chest sank back inside her. But she wouldn’t let it end with this disappointment, so she kept on laboring. Her left hand, with two fingers in her pussy and one in her anus, hurt now, so she had to take breaks. She had so many images in her mind that turned her on, but her whole body was simply exhausted. Wetness covered her pussy and its surrounding, and sweat was coming out in little drops everywhere else. She was a little scared of what she had done to herself, but she wanted that final orgasm. In that sea of wetness, her hands labored, searched, and found those most sensitive spots that screamed with pleasure and anxiety once touched. They all required a release. Her body about to give out, she touched and touched and imagined guys fucking a girl in all possible ways until they all reached a dirty, perverted, heavenly blindness. She reached it too together with all of them. Now utter exhaustion entered her. When she opened her eyes to realize she could see again, she saw her body twisted, wet, sweaty, her hands voraciously trying to dig out something at its very core.

            She took a shower, and her mouth gaped in a kind of smile. In the end, she was fifteen minutes late for work.

June 22, 2011

            He stared at the last page. He stared at the last sentence specifically. He was about to close the book, but he decided that this last sentence deserved a little more attention, so he stared at it a little more. When it seemed like he had given it enough attention, he closed the book with a sigh.

            Now he stared at the back cover. He could stare at the front one too, but he had done that way too often—every time he opened the book to read a little bit, and it was a long book. But he had never looked at the back cover with a sense of finality. Now he had finished the book and looking at its back cover meant putting all the impressions it had left in one, creating a gut feeling that would correspond to the book. So every time someone said, oh, do you remember that book, that specifically molded gut feeling would rise up to his throat, he would swallow, and it would hurt.

            He knew he would miss the book even while he was still reading it. That’s something he never liked about himself, the ease with which he got attached to people even if they were characters of someone’s imagination bathed in the perfect sunlight to make them suitable for sale. He ran a hand through his hair, which had noticeably grown sparse over the years with a tiny bald spot like a sun being born into the universe. He knew he was ugly just like the main guy in the book had been. The guy in the book had managed to be with his dream girl, but it only lasted for half a year, so who cares—he should have never been with her at all.

            He put some butter on a loaf of bread and stuck it in the microwave. He stared at it go round through the tiny, purposefully blurred window and imagined the last sentence of the book, the one he had stared at right before he had slammed the back cover shut. The microwave let out three shy beeps to tell him it was done. He set it for one more minute—more time for him to watch his loaf of bread go around (the butter had melted already). When that minute was over, he set the microwave to one more minute, and he did that several times. He was intrigued by the smell of burned bread that filled his nostrils and his entire kitchen. After a little bit, he concluded he didn’t want to set his microwave on fire. This time when he heard the shy beeps, he opened the little door with the tiny window, took the loaf with his thumb and index finger and threw it in the trash. It burned the soft skin on his desperate fingers.

            After walking back to the couch, he found the book still looking at him with its back cover. Tears came to his eyes because the book, fallen on its belly, knew it was read, finished, done for. He wasn’t sad for the book—it was a wise book, sufficient in itself, not needing anyone else. He was sad for all those people who didn’t know they were read, finished, and done for, who still thought they had a chance to be themselves and yet be with someone else. When he tried to apply that to himself, tears came to his eyes.

            His sadness was not one of loneliness but one of doubt. He asked, Book, how can you be so comfortable with yourself? How do you not ask yourself if you are right or wrong, book? The book kept looking at him, now with one eyebrow raised, a suspicious look, on its back cover. He dropped the subject. I think I should make myself another toast, he slowly thought out loud, then got up, pressing his hands against his knees for support. His back was hunched over, still asking itself whether it needed that toast or not, and his knees screeched. The book mocked him from the couch: are you sure?

June 15, 2011

            “I’d like to talk to you about something,” he said.

            “Go ahead, because I want to ask you something too,” he said.

            “Do you have any ideas about our next exhibition?” he asked.

            “Why do you care enough to come up and ask me about my ideas about our next exhibition?” he asked.

            “Well, because I have a suggestion, maybe only a suggestion about a direction we could go in or a suggestion about a specific artist, depending on what you are looking for to fit in the puzzle of your thoughts this time,” he said and held his breath.

            “I guess I could hear a suggestion about whatever it turns out to be,” he said and held his breath.

            “You do remember the painting that had orchids in its top half appearing as though they were in the rear of the visual field and the detailed, almost photographic, details of the slope that were positioned in the front? The artist, Bella Kuadramov, is quite talented and only two days ago released a new collection of works,” he repeatedly slid one nail under the other to remove any dirt that might have positioned itself in such a hiding place.

            “I’m not sure I’ve heard of her. I mean, I might have, I am not completely denying it because there’s no way to know if I didn’t meet her at one of Darryl’s parties, and if I say I don’t know her, people who’ve seen us talk will start calling me a liar, which is partially true but not entirely because I simply wouldn’t remember meeting her. But that never proves I don’t know her, so I can’t be sure, is what I was trying to say,” he repeatedly slid one nail under the other to remove any dirt that might have positioned itself in such a hiding place.

            “So would you please consider offering a hearing?” he asked, his eyebrows high up on his forehead.

            “Myself? Why would I spend time on her myself?” he asked, his eyebrows high up on his forehead.

            “As you wish, of course, I simply thought that that was the custom, as you have offered hearings to all the artists I’ve seen featured in our exhibitions. But it is entirely your choice how you believe this will go most efficiently,” he said, his voice growing quieter.

            “I’ve been much busier than usual recently, I expected you to notice! Well, that doesn’t matter, Matt can hear her through and decide what to do. I don’t have to do it, and it makes no difference whether I know her or not,” he said, his voice growing quieter.

            “Thank you, sir! I will set up the hearing right away!” He was beaming.

            “Of course. I wish the girl luck,” he was beaming. “Although it is unlikely that I know her.”

            And I talked to Matt already, so Bella’s got her stuff in the exhibition this time. This went so well, he smirked with his moustache.

            I didn’t even have to say I know her to get her stuff in the exhibition, he smirked with his moustache.

June 12, 2011

            We all change, but I hope we’re all in it together.

            I’m driving to my high school for our ten-year reunion. We are the Class of 2010, and I haven’t seen most of my ex-classmates for almost the full ten years. I didn’t like my class very much—there were some cool people, and that was it. It was supposed to be a great high school offering amazing possibilities to stretch your mind and make you gape in amazement. It did that occasionally. Most of the time it gave us so much work that we couldn’t lift our head up and look around without feeling like we are wasting precious seconds that could instead be used to do intriguing chemistry homework or commit crucial history dates to memory. We, or at least I, studied from Sunday morning till Thursday night, couldn’t wait for classes to end on Friday at 3 pm, so we could get drunk. And that lasted until Saturday night slowly grows lighter and turns out to be Sunday morning while we were still drinking, singing, dancing. Then we went to bed unwillingly and woke up three hours later to go home and start memorizing shit again.

            I had dinner alone as soon as I got home, but I also sat with my family as they were having dinner. I counted the minutes I spent with them. As soon as they went over thirty, the guilt in my stomach made me mumble something about how much work I had, and I walked up the stairs to my room with a sinking heart. Cleaning the kitchen took at least forty-five minutes, and I hated it because I could have written one more page for my paper had I not cleaned the kitchen. The guilt, or stress, or whatever, gnawed at my stomach, and nothing was good enough.

            Fuck that, I think while turning left at a small traffic light. Ahead of me I have a ten minute drive on the road surrounding the city, so I can enjoy the trees on both sides of it and the holes in the road, although I need to admit they are in a better condition than usual. It’s 6 pm, and the roadside ladies are swaying their hips, looking at drivers, hoping to make some of them happy after they have sat on their asses in the office all day long. I always look at the roadside ladies. I drive up and down this road ever since we moved in our house, but I still stare at the ladies’ colorful but austere clothes as I’m driving to go out or come back home. I wonder what it’s like to get fucked so many times per day, to give so many blowjobs, and to see so many dicks. I know condoms are obligatory, but giving a blowjob to a dick wearing a hat is disgusting. Don’t their mouths go dry? Don’t their pussies hurt? Do they shave completely? Do guys fuck them like pieces of meat on the backseats of their cars? Do angry, bored men treat them badly, or do they not care at all? I wonder what they are thinking while they are looking for the next client. I know some hookers are elite, but these are not. Still, they look like they know what they are doing.

            In a little while, the trees on both sides of the road grow fewer, and a construction site greets me on each side of the road. I press a button under the radio in my car to stop the air conditioner from taking any air from outside: the air my car is splitting in two is so dusty. I stop at a traffic light, and I pull up slowly because there’s a heavy-looking truck in front of me as dusty as the air. It’s marked with a foreign register number (?), but my eyes aren’t strong enough to let me read the small print of which country it is. Green light switches to yellow while I’m driving slowly, but it’s not my fault I didn’t stop: if I had tried to be a perfectly conscientious citizen, I should have stopped in the middle of the crossroad, which is also illegal. The car behind me, though, decided to play cool and cross too, although he could have stopped perfectly well. To his bad fortune, there is a policeman waiting for guys like that right after the crossroad. He waves to the car behind me to pull over. Poor driver, they are also trying to fight corruption, so I would not try to give him ten bucks to fight it off. He would have to listen to a criticizing lecture pour out of the policeman’s mouth and then pay his fine. Too bad, I hope you’re not in a hurry, poor guy.

            In ten minutes, I park my car in front of my old school gate. I leave the car under a tree that’s blooming, and I know from experience that it drops some thick, sweet liquid that forms sticky drops on the windows. It’s like permanent rain on my windows, so I don’t move the car.

            It’s 4.47 pm, and Anna said she’d be here by 4.45. She pointed out that she was punctual now. That’s impressive, I thought, remembering the times when the other girls and I told her we were meeting at 6 when the meeting was actually at 6.30. I sit on the front hood of my car and waited for Anna—she hasn’t changed that much, it seems.