I Became a Counselor So I Could Tell Rape Victims They Asked For It
Seven years of bad luck, but it seems this world's full of mirrors, and every step the breakage of another reflection.
Which is why I shouldn't take public transportation, these thoughts running through my head. What do I mean? What was I thinking?
People. The other person as a reflection of myself. Is that an American thing? We seem so self conscious, or perhaps I just feel more conscious of how I act, how I think around foreigners. So many questions... how can you really know what a person thinks, speaking in their second language? It's always been a problem for me, and I suppose the problem exists even in my home, where the only language spoken is our first.
Green light, no cars. The few feet between sidewalk and black asphalt's strewn with glass and cigarette butts. And, further off the road, I can see it clearly now in an image, one that I make into words as I think it, but the first thing I see when I think of those bushes in the empty lot between gas station and liquor store:
wet grass, stilldamp from morning dew in the shadow of higher bushes, and cradled in ones, each 2'4” from the other, small bottles, each with a well known name. Vodka mainly, or whiskey, sometimes gin, but those names are
Well known to me, drinking, but I've heard it said that wondering if you have a problem is the first indication that the problem exists. I fear to apply this same rational to the other problems in my life. Though I suppose, in the nights that I've spent thinking about it, the rational, I have applied it to my life as a whole, which takes the whole choice away, and I don't know why I've been watching those pigeons instead of the light, because suddenly the walk faster sign is blinking, and I've got another road to cross, taking my first step while I'm still remembering the bottles.
Further up my path, when this road intersects with MLK just before passing that sad little park. There's always the same two homeless men there, one of them huddled into himself, almost indistinguishable from the garbage bags the other roots through. Roots through? Why do I say that? If anything, the first man – the huddled one – is more animal. I've never seen his eyes, even when summer sets asphalt boiling and walkers like myself fermenting in damp and sweat itched clothes.
The second if anything, is higher than man, a sort of animal-man hybrid blending into his environment in the same way that I've never believed existed, even after seeing him every day and every evening, talking with him on occasion, most notably the one I remember as I think of rooting through trash bags along this stretch of side road, rimmed on either side with warehouse loading docks.
It was one of the hotter months, maybe August
----------
That's as far as I've gotten. I'm taking the day to walk down Clark until I hit a supposedly interesting area just along the lake. There's some used bookstores, people much better dressed than me, coffee shops, the usual in that sort of area.
I'm really going there to prove that it's still possible to get into the city without a car. I'm maybe two miles into the five mile walk, finishing lunch (coffee and bagels) in Uncommon Grounds (recently voted "the city's best coffee and social spot"). I dunno. I'm not really a social person. I'm sitting here looking out the window, and occasionally waiters come by. It's quite cozy.
The story above's loosely based on my life, loosely on my brother's, and there's a good mix of overheard stories and plain fiction in there. I suppose the style would be called realist, with modernist touches. The transition between the narrator's thoughts and his description of the airline booze bottles could be considered post-modern.
I should write science fiction. I was thinking of a quick adventure story - you know, bounty hunter with all sorts of cool gadgets, except, in the story, he'll be a dorky IT guy, whose job just happens to include killing brain sucking parasites which invade the company ship's mainframe. It'll be fun. I might even stick in some open source jokes for Brit.
Criticism, comments, and suggestions are always welcome. Also, yo mamma jokes.
Which is why I shouldn't take public transportation, these thoughts running through my head. What do I mean? What was I thinking?
People. The other person as a reflection of myself. Is that an American thing? We seem so self conscious, or perhaps I just feel more conscious of how I act, how I think around foreigners. So many questions... how can you really know what a person thinks, speaking in their second language? It's always been a problem for me, and I suppose the problem exists even in my home, where the only language spoken is our first.
Green light, no cars. The few feet between sidewalk and black asphalt's strewn with glass and cigarette butts. And, further off the road, I can see it clearly now in an image, one that I make into words as I think it, but the first thing I see when I think of those bushes in the empty lot between gas station and liquor store:
wet grass, stilldamp from morning dew in the shadow of higher bushes, and cradled in ones, each 2'4” from the other, small bottles, each with a well known name. Vodka mainly, or whiskey, sometimes gin, but those names are
Well known to me, drinking, but I've heard it said that wondering if you have a problem is the first indication that the problem exists. I fear to apply this same rational to the other problems in my life. Though I suppose, in the nights that I've spent thinking about it, the rational, I have applied it to my life as a whole, which takes the whole choice away, and I don't know why I've been watching those pigeons instead of the light, because suddenly the walk faster sign is blinking, and I've got another road to cross, taking my first step while I'm still remembering the bottles.
Further up my path, when this road intersects with MLK just before passing that sad little park. There's always the same two homeless men there, one of them huddled into himself, almost indistinguishable from the garbage bags the other roots through. Roots through? Why do I say that? If anything, the first man – the huddled one – is more animal. I've never seen his eyes, even when summer sets asphalt boiling and walkers like myself fermenting in damp and sweat itched clothes.
The second if anything, is higher than man, a sort of animal-man hybrid blending into his environment in the same way that I've never believed existed, even after seeing him every day and every evening, talking with him on occasion, most notably the one I remember as I think of rooting through trash bags along this stretch of side road, rimmed on either side with warehouse loading docks.
It was one of the hotter months, maybe August
----------
That's as far as I've gotten. I'm taking the day to walk down Clark until I hit a supposedly interesting area just along the lake. There's some used bookstores, people much better dressed than me, coffee shops, the usual in that sort of area.
I'm really going there to prove that it's still possible to get into the city without a car. I'm maybe two miles into the five mile walk, finishing lunch (coffee and bagels) in Uncommon Grounds (recently voted "the city's best coffee and social spot"). I dunno. I'm not really a social person. I'm sitting here looking out the window, and occasionally waiters come by. It's quite cozy.
The story above's loosely based on my life, loosely on my brother's, and there's a good mix of overheard stories and plain fiction in there. I suppose the style would be called realist, with modernist touches. The transition between the narrator's thoughts and his description of the airline booze bottles could be considered post-modern.
I should write science fiction. I was thinking of a quick adventure story - you know, bounty hunter with all sorts of cool gadgets, except, in the story, he'll be a dorky IT guy, whose job just happens to include killing brain sucking parasites which invade the company ship's mainframe. It'll be fun. I might even stick in some open source jokes for Brit.
Criticism, comments, and suggestions are always welcome. Also, yo mamma jokes.
posted by Fifth at 1:50 PM
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