Author: zornog

look, i’m out of things to say. i’ve said everything. i think my life contained a reservoir of words and i’ve used them up. useful words, i mean. this is it, this is the end of my vocabulary. once these words are spoken i will have no words left. all the meaningful ones have been said, and now all i have left is this. what is this anyway? are these the meaningless particles in the universe that no one bothers to measure? are these sound waves destined to die against iron walls, or fizzle out amid the cosmic background radiation of the universe? what is the meaning of the end? when i am finished talking, there will be no more words left for me to speak. i will be mute until the day i die. and none of you seem to be taking this in. i can feel it already, i feel my lack of words, i feel unable to say much more than this. my word reservoir is dwindling. linguistically i am dying, i am dying. my throat is closing up, i told you i am out of things to say, you didn’t believe me but it’s true, i’m out–[he keeps moving his mouth but words stop coming out. he stops. then he gesticulates: “see? see i told you so! fuck!”]

look, let me just say what i want to say and then i’ll be out of your hair forever. okay? because i’ve got this, this, this soreness in my chest, right, this thump thump thump and it’s not my heartbeat, it’s my body … fighting over whether to tell them or not. it’s my conscience, it’s my consciousness … we have to tell them, jake. that’s what it’s telling me, it’s been telling me this for ages now. we have to tell them. the more time we spend with our mouths zipped up, the longer the ache pulls me down, and i’m afraid in a year or two i just won’t be able to take it anymore and i’ll blow my brains out, just to stop this constant aching. the only thing stopping me is you and those big meaty fists of yours. i don’t even care if i go to jail anymore. look you can tell them i did it, jake, you can tell them i did everything just as long as people know. people gotta know. they gotta know. i see them on the news and i– i just can’t take it anymore. they’re dying, jake. they’re dying inside. and i feel it and it’s making me die inside too. you know i love you jake but that won’t matter if i can’t feel anything for anyone. you get me? you get me jake? if we don’t tell anyone tonight i’m gonna kill myself, i swear to god. if you care about me even one little bit you will let us talk. let us talk jake. let us talk.

back on track, jack. you gotta cut all that slack and attack the flack that keeps shredding you, boy. find the joy in the mystic toys the universe birthed to surprise you, to hone you, to keen you into a body built from stardust. you must trust me thusly: you are, and are not, special, that is the mystery i see in fortunes free falling around you and me. you, unique representative of particular consciousness, a mess of chemical stress, invested in by billions of bilious and ebullient bacteria biding their time in your gut. and yet, you strut, like the cock of the walk. we balk at this, because we sense you miss the grand gesture of humanity–that we are freely similar beings, wholly one and wholly all, comprised of vice and venison strips, coagulated amid red blood and pink meat wrapped around bone and tied with sinew. our bodies a mold, our consciousness boldly separate, prepped to let thoughts flow through tongue and cheek, deliberately sneaking in nuggets of wisdom. we are holding cells of independent thought, and what thought it can be, a sea of free will, you and me independently conjuring similar images in our divided minds. is that not worth your awe? you saw how complex and how vexed you were at the myriad aspects of the universe. it’s tough. but you’re tougher, rougher than the coarse stuff your ancestors tread over to bear your consciousness into the world. you’re stardust, and meat, and light on your feet, and soon you’ll be weekly out dancing in the street.

conrad, darling, do me a favor and draw the blinds, will you? i want to strip out of my eveningwear and i’d prefer not to have the neighbors gawking at me. and start a bath? with epsom salts? thank you. and whatever you do, don’t peek, you know how shy i am, conrad! now let me tell you about the gala tonight. it is going to be simply fantastic! edward has contracted a man from fifth street to carve an enormous ice sculpture of a swan, complete with a little funnel from the top of the sculpture to a hole at the swan’s bottom. you can pour your favorite liquor at the top and then drink it as it comes out of its little, hm, what is it called? cloaca! yes, oh my, it’s going to be great. susan has ordered truffles, all kind of truffles, with chocolate and caramel and vanilla filling. and i believe trevor contacted the caterers who are going to make little ham and cheese quiches! imagine, a tiny quiche! conrad can you imagine that? conrad what are you up to over there? don’t look! i’m barely in my negligee. conrad are you making a noose? am i *boring* you conrad, to the point of suicide? oh i’m so sorry, i’m sorry this gala is going to be enormous and wonderful that talking about it has made you want to hang yourself. please. is the bath drawn yet?

you know, out of all these things that i want, you know what i want the most? i want you to be disappointed in me. i’d love for you to have any reactionary feelings towards me whatsoever. you’re my fucking father for chrissakes, you lay there in your chair just not giving a shit about anything. everyone’s gone and now it’s just you, alone, in this hellhole of a house. and when i come by to say hello and tell you that my marriage failed and that i’m being checked out by a doctor for a fatty liver brought about by drinking, and that i lost the dream job i’ve always wanted because i can’t even get myself out of bed in the morning, all i want, all i want is for you to be disappointed in me. all i need is for you to say, “son, get your shit together.” all i want is advice or direction. just point in a fucking direction! north, south, east, west, whatever. diagonals even. give me something i can hang my hat on. instead you bit your lip after ted was born and never let go. and that’s fine, now. you keeping your mouth shut gave me the drive i needed to get out of this piece of shit town, to seek answers elsewhere. so thanks for that, i guess. but once my past caught up with me and i just needed some guidance, hell, i may be 46 but i still need guidance, dad–after all that time, you’re still here, watching reruns of frasier on your shitty TV … still biting your lip. never enough to draw blood, yet still gnawing.