13 Dec ’13

WRITING IN CODE story and photography by FOX HARVARD

Writing in code.  Writing about things I don’t own ”and other than clothes and the occasional Venus soul” is almost everything.  Complete disregard for days, times and months.  This year I know very well, thank you very much.

I am drunk again off liquid cocaine with a Grolsch chaser, dreaming of those fantastic criminal acts that I cannot recreate when I abruptly awaken at 8:45AM.  Somehow I make it to work in 15 minutes, showered and powdered, my brain a stabbing fist in my head and an attractive crease across my cheek from the pillow upon which I slept in unholy positions.

I am a fucking headache in a suitcase.

My beautifully embalanced flavor of the week, aloof bitch that she is, manages a slight, yet unseen smile, as she scrapes out her good morning over a telephone line.  Feeling more alone than ever, I let the earpiece kiss the cradle again.

The room pitches a little to the left, a momentary lapse in the drink-time continuum ensues, but I am a good enough human-being to act blithe for the sake of a shit wage and the air of responsibility.  Fuck this; fuck all the people sitting about here and there, drinking their coffee. A cream here, a lemon there, and there “right there” a straw. Fuck you, and all the while machine noise.

Enter Niamh.

Soja told me once while washing my dishes upstairs, she thought Niamh was a boy.  This, of course, is before I knew her (you must understand this).  I feel her presence but my stabbing head doesn’t allow me to see her all at once.  I see her point, giving thin and short boy fingers to the air around and around in here. She has no masculine figure, she has no feminine figure, and yet I cannot help but mistake her for a girl. Her hair is long and thick with honey fingers and curly curls, and she stands overhead of me at my desk and is probably a bit smarter than I in certain social situations and she takes in a quick breath and then she sounds, and I could fall asleep to that voice.  Secretly I love her, much to Soja’s chagrin.

Exit Soja.  Please.

How to describe this girl, you wonder? I’d rather not.  She and I could be motion, but Soja is a neat freak with a sadistic passion for soap and scrubbing things. She can run the gamut from Pine-sol to Brass.  So, Niamh continues her story with,

“Well, I was in high school in Dublin, and I sort of fell for em despite. Jesus! That accent!  Whatever. And how often have we been pissed out of our heads, gone on the piss, or pissed together in some hole somewhere, your eyes like knives, all scouring around my ankles?” And then she saw me again, vulnerable and not having the chance to speak intelligently.  Oh dear, I thought, I’ll never feel safe again!

The drink of choice for those paddling around through this “fingers in the mire” is a gin and tonic (with sweetened lime) It’s a big fucking world, isn’t it?  Anyway, at Clicks, we all gather together after a hard day for pool, and personally I am aggravated by the game, so obviously I don’t play that well.  Not as well as I think I should.  And Soja, aloof bitch that she is, hasn’t a brain-cell in her head, so she fills it with useless facts, state capitols, obscure composers and the pursuit of “man-pussy”. Oh yeah, and the occasional emotion.  So I buy Niamh a gin and tonic once, and then another ad nauseam.  Soja walks between us.  Top it off, polish it off, and then swirl the smoke as the cigarette’s cherry snuffs out, hissing as it crushes against the misshapen cubes left in the glass.

Enter den of ambiguity.

We return to my town and talk of paintings and painters.  If she wasn’t so goddamn beautiful I wouldn’t bother, but a fool I am, and as long as a purpose is served…

Ten minutes later, we are naked and making love to androgyny on a brown sofa.

Rain’s on its way up, I think to myself as we finish.  Mice are scurrying along the length of railway tracks.

Funny how fast your spots can change.

And in my mind, I see myself standing on La Brea Avenue when it was just a dirt road, flanked by orange groves to the west and green mountains to the east, and I turn around to see the word HOLLYWOOD etched in white.  It is not wrong for an artist to obsess about everything he does, even when the world is crashing around him.  Continue to play the violin, my friend.

Mark Twain once said, “Nature knows no indecencies man invented them.”

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